


What's Left of Kisses

by Draco_sollicitus



Series: What's Left of Kisses [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Brooklyn Boys, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Chapter 22 is epilogue, Eventual Smut, Fluff, History Teacher Bucky, IT IS FINISHED, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Jewish Maximoff Twins, Kidnapping, M/M, Medium Burn, Misunderstandings, Modern Bucky, Past Abuse, Past Brock Rumlow/Bucky, See Series Notes, Shrunkyclunks, Steve Rogers Can Flirt Sometimes, Tagging if that bothers anyone, The Smut is Here!, Torture, Violence, age of ultron never happened, flangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-10-04 23:26:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 86,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17313827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draco_sollicitus/pseuds/Draco_sollicitus
Summary: Bucky Barnes, history teacher and sometimes Human Disaster, has absolutely no major expectations of his class trip to the National Museum of American History.But, a chance run-in with Steve Rogers irrevocably changes the course of his life._Steve loves his teammates - especially the Maximoff twins, whom Tony has dubbed Steve's "freaky ducklings" - but it's not until he stumbles across a shy, handsome man in the Howling Commandos' exhibit that he realizes what's been missing in his life.(And when Steve falls, he falls hard - and for always).





	1. At the Museum

**Author's Note:**

> The human race tends to remember the abuses to which it has been subjected rather than the endearments. What's left of kisses? Wounds, however, leave scars. 
> 
> -Bertolt Brecht

“Myers, absolutely no one is impressed with that, cut the crap before I have to use my first aid kit.” Bucky glances up from his iPad to give Tom Myers _a look._ The junior clambers down from where he’d been balancing on top of a handrail, trying to catch the eye of the rest of the class. “Good choice,” Bucky compliments, going back to the iPad to tap through for their tickets. “I didn’t actually pack the first aid kit.”

Titters from the group erupt, and even Myers grins, ducking his head sheepishly. Bucky hides a smile as he finally finds the damn email and opens it: twenty tickets to the National Museum of American History for two adults and eighteen students.

His fellow teacher, Elena Chavez, sidles up next to him and peers over his shoulder. “You lose the tickets, Barnes?”

“No,” he mutters defensively, waving the tablet for her to see. “Found ‘em, right where I left ‘em.” He clears his throat and gestures for the class to circle up around him. “Alright, what’s the drill?”

“No running. Or dance fighting,” Myers provides helpfully, no doubt remembering his spectacular run-in with the security guards at the National Portrait Gallery yesterday. Bucky nods, and Elena smiles kindly at the student.

“No selfies,” Christophe adds.

“Or photos of Mr. Barnes,” Jayden continues. “Even if he’s napping.”

“For the last time, I wasn’t napping, I was” - Bucky pinches his nose when even Elena smirks at him - “Fine. Fine, I was napping, I’m only human. God. Anyway, seriously, what are we here for?”

“We’re supposed to be looking for moments in time in American History where our national acceptance of modern ethics began to emerge.” Everyone looks over in surprise to Olivia, the only sophomore enrolled in AP Seminar, and she blushes and tucks her chin into the collar of her wool coat.

“That’s right.” Bucky smiles at her encouragingly, a rare, full smile - he usually grins sardonically, and he even caught the kids making a “Murder-Eyes-Barnes” meme last year, which shouldn’t have excited him as much as it did - and Olivia hides her face even more, going so far as to tug her scarf up. Luckily, it’s a cold, bitter day in D.C., so no one would call her on it.

“And how many people do you need to have in your group?” Elena asks, tapping her fingernails on the back of her iPad.

“At least three,” half the class chant back. Elena lifts one, immaculate eyebrow - and God, Bucky’s jealous of that, the look _and_ the eyebrow - and they stand up a little straighter, clutching their notebooks tightly in front of them. “At least three!” The entire class repeats.

“And what time are we going to see you back here?” Bucky jumps in, holding his phone up.

“Four!” The students rush to show him the alarms they have set - vibrate only, of course, Bucky isn’t a monster - used to the drill by now.

“Alright, weirdos, follow me.” Bucky jerks his head towards the entrance, already unbuttoning his coat so he can get ready for security. After he passes the scan, Bucky hands his phone to the guard to deal with the admission of eighteen squirrely adolescents, and he gives each of them his own brand of ‘murder-eyes’ as they pass through the metal detector. “Hey,” he mutters, nudging Tom Myers as he walks through. “C’mere a second.”

“Yeah, Mr. Barnes?” Tom shuffles his feet and eyes his friends already working towards some of the exhibits.

“I have absolutely no doubt you can make every good choice today,” Bucky says softly, so no one else can hear them, except maybe the security guard, who looks like she’d rather be anywhere else but here. “But if somethin’ happens, and you need help, just call me or Ms. Chavez, okay? Don’t try to solve it by yourself.”

“I won’t pick any fights,” Myers says to his feet, not looking up.

“I don’t think you pick fights, kid.” Bucky smiles at him kindly, and Tom looks surprised when he glances up at him. “But I think you finish them for other people. Not every argument has to end in mayhem. You’re a good kid. Let some adults do the talking instead of your fists, okay?”

Tom nods after a second, his eyes awkwardly averted away from Bucky, and he adjusts the strap of his backpack, sighing, wishing fervently he knew what to say to the angriest kid he’d ever met. “Go learn, or whatever.” Bucky shoos him away, and Tom does smile at that, turning around and fleeing to where Jayden and Olivia have been waiting for him, the last group of three.

“See you at 3:30?” Bucky asks Elena, who’s already strolling off towards the Food in America exhibit.

“Mhm.” She waves over her shoulder at him. “And don’t worry, I’ll know where to find you.”

Bucky sticks his tongue out at her, and she cackles, shaking her grey-streaked mane out behind her before rounding a corner and disappearing from view. Cracking his neck out, Bucky looks around the building - it’s definitely not the prettiest of the Smithsonians, but it’s got its own kind of charm. He looks around at the various signs and the crowds milling around him, and just appreciates the feeling of getting lost in the crush of bodes for a second, just a dot on the face of the earth, trying to make the best of his own small life.

“God, you’re fuckin’ pretentious,” Bucky mutters to himself, adjusting his backpack once more before heading off in the exact opposite direction to the precise exhibit he was excited for, not wanting to prove Elena right.

***

Bucky sits in the cool dark room as reels from World War II play on repeat on various screens embedded in the wall. He’s seen all of them by now - and he already knew most, if not all, of the information on them - but there’s just...something about the way they all laugh that he can’t get over. He’s had friends in his life, sure, Bucky’s been popular since he, and the general population, figured out that he was cute (and that was circa 2000), but he’s never really had anyone that he was all that close to.

Seeing these men, who rallied together at one of the worst times in history, grinning and laughing and slapping each other on the back, even as soot and grime and blood line their faces and uniforms, it - it makes something settle, hot and regretful, in his gut. How can a person even be nostalgic for a life they never lived, people they never knew?

He taps his fingers against his knee and studies the journal entries on display a few feet away from him, his keen eyesight letting him get the gist of the neatly formed, carefully preserved cursive. Reasonably, he can just get up and go read it, but man, he’s tired. Bucky’d had to sit down a few minutes after he walked in; museum fatigue is a real thing, and he’d been wandering around the halls, bumping into students now and then and chatting with them about various aesthetics and codes of law and historical events, for the better part of three hours, so he’d seen an open chair in the room when he entered and just sort of collapsed on it.

And he isn’t here to nap, no matter what his students would say. Jeez. Let a man live.

While he gazes up at Peggy Carter’s journal entry from the days and weeks and months after a plane went down in the Arctic, a figure shuffles in front of him, obscuring his view. Bucky writhes on the vinyl for a few seconds (does he get up and sacrifice comfort in the name of knowledge?) before heaving to his feet and walking over the glass case.

The man who blocked his view is a few solid inches taller than he is, which is saying something because Bucky’s pretty tall, and he’s built like a brick shithouse. Bucky steadfastly does _not_ notice the way the leather jacket pulls across the guy’s shoulders, the round perfection of his peach of a butt, and he looks away quickly from his thick brown hair and beard, refusing to ogle his face. Even here in the good, queer year of 2015, it’s not the best to broadcast one’s interest in a stranger’s ass in a museum currently full of one’s students who don’t know one is, as the youth would say, ‘hella gay.’

Bucky’s more than happy to stand in awkward silence with Mr. “Can I Climb You Like A Tree,” until the guy adjusts his stance (and he’s gotta be military, a spine that straight, feet so firmly planted, and God, Bucky should not be thinking about what else might be firm on him, he’s barely even looked at him) and sniffs.

Very distinctively.

He eyes his companion in the small side chamber and sees the guy’s got a baseball hat, the brim pulled low as his shoulders hunch, like that would actually make him smaller. The stranger’s clearly studying Peggy Carter’s journal, and sure enough, he sniffs again, his hand reaching up to wipe at his eyes.

It’s not odd that the guy is crying, some of what Agent Carter wrote was absolutely gutting -

  -  _It is my hope that there are still good men in the world; after all, what actually allowed Steve Rogers to be Captain America was not manufactured in a lab _-__

_\- Shining through the night is the belief that a few people dedicated to righting the wrongs of cruel people can actually change the world -_

_\- I miss you, my darling...I can’t bear to dance anymore -_

_\- Sometimes in the night, I wake up cold, and wonder if its my soul, reaching out to yours, trapped in ice, and so far away from me I can’t stand it -_

 

Bucky’s read the last few before, for his senior thesis in undergrad, but he’s not so distanced by familiarity that the words don’t sting.

The guy wipes his eyes again, surreptitiously, and Bucky debates just giving him the room. But nah - dudes gotta start normalizing being sad in front of other dudes, so he decides just to talk to the guy (which is a strong case for Exhibit A of Why Bucky Barnes Should Not Be Allowed Out In Public).

“Y’know, when I was like, five years old, I told my ma that I wanted to be Peggy Carter when I grew up.”

The man pauses for a second before exhaling a laugh, a low, rough noise. “That so?”

“Yep.” Bucky doesn’t glance over at the guy, who still sounds a little torn up. Besides, the entirety of their connection right now is in their shared interest in this exhibit, and Bucky thinks it’d be breaking some sacred law of historical appreciation if he looked away from the artifacts now. “She was always so self-assured. And cool. And brilliant.” Bucky pauses for a second, fidgeting his fingers where he’s stuffed them in his coat pockets. “Also, her makeup was always _spectacular._ How do you even have time to do that in a war? Incredible.”

“It really was.” Aw, man, Bucky’s so fucked - Mr. Stranger’s said five words to him, and Bucky already knows that he wants to hear this voice saying _other_ things to him. He shivers a little bit, hoping it goes unnoticed, because how does he explain the sudden urge for this rando to call him _good boy_ , maybe while curled over him in bed, and -

_You. Are. On. A. School. Trip. Get it together._

“She always knew what to do.” It’s a whisper, and Bucky nods in agreement; at the same time, something in his tone cuts Bucky to the quick. He sounds wistful, after all, this fellow museum-history-lover, and damn if Bucky doesn’t understand that.

“Agent Carter was an amazing lady.” He gestures to the display that extends along the wall, to the faces of Dugan, Morita, Pinkerton, Falsworth, Jones, Juniper, Dernier, and of course, Rogers. “They were all amazing.” _You sound like an idiot._ “I just mean - I’m here with my students, and I told them they all had to at least stop by this exhibit, so they could see real heroes, ones that fought against the worst evil, almost all of ‘em without special abilities, or a ridiculous get-up.”

“Yeah?” The voice is low, pitched soft. Still pleasant, though. Bucky nods and tilts his head, his stomach twisting, squinting up at the picture of the Commandos gathered together in ‘44.

“I love the Commandos, always did. Willing to follow each other into hell - talk about a band of brothers. They’re incredible.”

“They are, aren’t they? The fellas always had each others’ backs.” Bucky pinpoints the accent, - the man drops the ends of his words and drags his vowels not unlike Bucky’s grandma, old school Brooklynite, and he grins at the guy without looking over.

“Nothin’ like ‘em in the world. And I’m not just talking about Rogers, y’know?” The guy shifts minutely, his shoulder briefly brushing against Bucky’s, and he mumbles an apology; Bucky’s cheeks, the traitors, burn under a fierce blush, but he keeps talking, pretending that the contact didn’t pass through him like electricity. “Don’t get me wrong, that guy’s probably the only real hero among the supers. But man, the Commandos were kick ass. An Asian, a gay man, a Jew, a black guy - all kickin’ Nazi ass. It’s poetry.”

“It’s the kind of bravery you can’t put in a bottle.” The guy raises his hand almost like he’s going to trace over the glass, over the picture, but thinks better of it. In leaning forward, Bucky gets a muddled look of the guy’s features in the glass’s reflection - it’s hard to get a solid look, but he can tell the guy is hot, with a scruffy beard and slightly crooked nose and a jawline he wants to sit on ( _you are on a school trip! On! A! School! Trip!)_. The briefly raised hand drops back to the stranger’s side, and Bucky can feel the fingers tightening into a loose fist.

“Brave sons of bitches, every last one of ‘em.” Bucky clears his throat and points up at Jim Morita. “I know his grandson.”

“You do?” While it had sounded almost wavering before, the (hot, perfect, beautiful) voice is more focused now.

“Yep. He was my adjunct during grad school. He helped me with my thesis - minorities who fought in World War II.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” Bucky shrugs, a one armed gesture. “My grandpa fought - not in the 107th, but he loved those guys. Everyone did. Meant somethin’ special to Zayda, though.”

“Jewish?” The question is soft, but Bucky tenses. Old habit at this point.

“Yep.” He eyes the opening to the side exhibit and can see a good portion of his class milling about right outside the entrance to the Commandos section; a couple girls are pointing over at the recently constructed Peggy Carter memorial. “His dad switched their name to Barnes when he came through Ellis Island. Just easier back then. But there’s been a Barnes in Crown Heights since 1925.”

“No shit? I’m from Prospect Park!” The accent is more defined now, the tone giddy, and Bucky can’t help it, he looks over, breaking the unspoken agreement to gaze up at fallen heroes, and then his breath exits his body.

As his students would say, _RIP._

RIP Bucky, because the guy he’s been chatting to casually about the Howling Commandos and Peggy Carter - as if he knew _anything_  - is none other than Captain Fuckin’ America. Sure, his hair is dyed brown, and that beard never showed up in any of Bucky’s history textbooks, and he’s far more recognizable in red-white-and-blue tights (that Bucky has NEVER in his LIFE thought about for more than five seconds) than the ill-fitting khakis and the button-down that’s straining for its life across his perfect chest (no, no, no, don’t ogle his chest, even if his beautiful pectorals are calling out to you, promising shelter and snuggles and all good things).

But nope, Bucky’s opened his mouth and made an ass out of himself in front of Captain-Fuckin-America, and he’s suddenly wishing for a sinkhole to open under this block of D.C., under this schmuck, and swallow him whole, thanks, that’d be great.

“Meep,” Bucky says very intelligently. _Winning._

Captain America laughs kindly, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he extends his hand. “Steve Rogers. But I guess you knew that?”

Bucky nods, throat working over a thousand and one potential replies as he slips his hand into Captain America’s, and he has a feeling with that super serum, there’s no way Captain America doesn’t notice how badly his fingers are trembling, or that he missed the way Bucky’s entire face is on fucking fire. Bucky clears his throat to introduce himself before the handshake ends.

“You dropped a building on my ex-boyfriend!” comes out instead, and Captain America lets go of Bucky’s hand with a quizzical look, and Bucky slaps his now-free hand to his face. _C’mon, sinkhole,_ he prays.

“I’m...sorry?” Captain America has perfected the politely confused voice, and Bucky squeaks a few times in a way he hopes is inaudible.

“Don’t be.” He drops his hand to his side and lets his fingers fidget for a second. “He was a total motherfu- I mean. Idiot.” Bucky looks over his shoulder, and sure enough, his children are creeping closer to this tiny, fragile bubble that’s constructed around himself and the most famous man of the last century, here in the side exhibit. Gotta watch his language. “So really, uh, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Captain America pauses meaningfully, a teasing smile barely restrained behind that damned beard that Bucky shouldn’t find so attractive, but he still can’t help wondering how it would feel against his thigh, and isn’t _that_ weird, when Bucky hasn’t had any inclination for any of that noise since his shitty ex that he just babbled to Captain America about.

Name. Right. He needs a name. Captain America needs _you_ to buy a war bond, and he also needs Bucky to stop being an ass.

“James Barnes,” he breathes, sounding more like a girl at a One Direction concert than a twenty-five year old man. Bucky rubs his neck, flailing internally. “Oh jeez, you must think I’m a total idiot.”

“Nah. Maybe a cute idiot?” Captain America tilts his head at him, still smiling, and Bucky’s insides turn hot-cold-hot very rapidly. Did - did the Star-Spangled Man with a Motherfucking Plan just _flirt_ with him?

No. He’s just reading into this too much. Why on earth would Captain America be flirting with him? (Bucky does an internal check, one prescribed by his therapist - _is it his C-PTSD telling him that, or his gut instinct?_ Doesn’t matter. It checks out).

Bucky glances over his shoulder again, and like a zombie movie, his students are still growing close and closer, which means he has very limited time to see how much more of his foot he can stuff in his mouth. Gosh, he’s an idiot. Gosh gosh, fucking gosh.

“Regardless. I’m sorry, s-sir?” Bucky squints his eyes up a little, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth, and he does _not_ miss the way Captain America’s pupils dilate. Whoa.

“You don’t need to call me that.” His voice is pitched even lower, rougher. Bucky squeaks out another few ultrasonic panic noises.

“Captain?”

“Fuck no.”

“Language!” Bucky hisses, smacking Captain America on the arm on instinct while he looks over his shoulder to see if Shana, Christophe, or Elisa heard that.

Then, he whips his head around so fast in horror, he can hear his neck crack. He just _slapped Captain America._

The man stares back at Bucky, his blue eyes wide, and mouth open.

“Sorry!” Bucky fumbles for a second before settling on petting the spot on the captain’s arm that he just smacked. _That isn’t normal! Abort!_ “Sorry for - sorry!” He pats the arm before snatching his hand away like it’s been burned. “Oh, no.” He buries his face in his hands again.

And then Captain America starts to laugh.

It’s a wheezing, rusty giggle, and when Bucky works up the courage to look at him again, the other man is almost doubled over from laughter, tears forming in his beautiful eyes. “P-please, just call me Steve,” he wheezes out between laughter, and Bucky tugs on his hair, unsure if he should smile or scream and run.

“You okay, Mr. Barnes?” Shana taps him on the arm and gives Captain America a weird look, obviously not recognizing him either at first glance (which makes him feel a little better).

“I’m good, Shana, thanks. Did you get any good notes?”

“Yeah!” She holds up her papers with a huge grin. “I have just enough time to go check out the food expo downstairs!”

“Oh, thank God!” Christophe pipes up. “They’re probably out of samples by now.” He holds his stomach dejectedly, and Bucky flaps his hands at them for only mildly selfish reasons.

“Go! Go, go - we only have forty minutes left in here.”

“See ya, Mr. Barnes!” Elisa drags Christophe towards the door, and Shana follows them. The trio disappears around the corner, and Bucky notices that Captain America - _Steve_ \- isn’t laughing anymore.

“So, you’re a teacher?” His look is careful, considering, but Bucky shrugs minutely. He’s a teacher. That’s all he is, all he’ll ever be. He knows his job doesn’t stack up to what the Avengers do. “What do you teach, Mr. Barnes?” The way his eyelashes lower when he says Bucky’s name should be illegal. Bucky’s gonna write his congressman as soon as he gets home about creating a bill that says _Steve Rogers cannot look at Bucky Barnes through his eyelashes, due to the irrevocable consequences and effect on Bucky Barnes’s dick in public._

“History.” Bucky tugs on his hair again, even though he’s probably messing it up beyond all fixing at this point. “Art History, too. And some philosophy.”

“Do you teach here in D.C.?” That question sounds more careful than the last one, and Bucky doesn’t know how to read that.

“Nah. I’m at the magnet school in Brooklyn, for the arts and humanities?”

“No shit!” Steve beams at him. “That’s only five blocks from me!”

“Oh.” Bucky nods, eyes round before he looks at the floor and fixes his gaze there. “Is it nice?”

“My house?”

“No, I mean - is it nice to be back in Brooklyn?”

“Oh.” His voice drops noticeably, and Bucky fights the urge to look at him because it’s honestly like looking into the sun. “Yeah. It’s … it’s good to be home. Even if so much has changed.”

“God, you must have such fascinating shit to say about pre-war life in Brooklyn!” Bucky claps a hand to his mouth and finally looks up if only to plead for forgiveness with his eyes because, fuck, that’s 1. Nerdy as hell, and 2. Insensitive as shit.

“You lookin’ for a history lesson?” Steve - he’s calling Captain America _Steve_ now! Suck it, Dr. Wilson from History 343, you actually _can_ call legends by their first name! - smiles at Bucky, his eyes wrinkling at the corners, and Bucky’s stomach flip flops uncomfortably.

“Hnng,” his heart (or maybe his dick) says.

“Absolutely!” His mouth (bless his mouth for knowing how to separate itself from his various, useless, inappropriate parts) says. “It’d be really … educational!”

Fuck you, Barnes.

Steve Rogers has clearly been through some intense PR training of ‘how to deal with losers who can’t stop fawning over you’ because instead of looking horrified at Bucky’s failure to normal, he looks delighted.

Then, he reaches out and grabs Bucky’s left hand - and Bucky just barely catches the _meep_ that threatens to slip out his mouth. Steve takes out one of those fancy pens, the kind Alexia in second block AP US History is always using, those felt tip markers she hoards and uses to draw ink sketches when she _should be doing her DBQs,_ and writes something on Bucky’s hand.

“That’s my number.” Steve finishes quickly and tucks the pen back into his sketchbook after releasing Bucky. “If you ever want me to teach you some history, I’d be more than happy to.”

“Mhm.” Bucky nods, rapidly, looking at the digits on his palm with wide eyes. “Y-yes! I mean, yeah, that’d be -”

“Educational?” Steve guesses, drawling the word a bit so Bucky just _knows_ he’s making fun of him - and who the fuck knew Steve Rogers was a sassy little shit?

“Exactly.” Bucky closes his hand and grins. “I really do need to” - he gestures over his shoulder, wanting to stay here a few minutes, but he has Steve Rogers’s motherfucking phone number, and Steve Rogers is looking at him like he’s a very adorable, very silly animal at a zoo, and Bucky flails internally. “Gotta meet up with my co-teacher.”

“Of course.” Steven grins at him, a little bashfully now. “Don’t lose that number, Mr. Barnes.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Bucky holds his hand tightly to his chest as though physically protecting the sacred information it contains, and his cheeks flush once more. “I’ll - see you?”

Bucky waves awkwardly at him, still actively wishing for a sinkhole, and flees towards the atrium he and Elena agreed on.

Once he gets there, nine minutes early, he puts his back to the wall and studies the ten digits on his palm before folding his hand back into a fist and holding it over his still wildly beating heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhh!! So excited to finally do a full-length Stucky fic! My OTP to end all OTPs.
> 
> This fic takes place around 2015/2016 (so, after winter soldier, but before the time frame for Civil War). As the tags say, Age of Ultron never happened - and the reason for why that is will come up later.
> 
> I try to update the overall tags with major warnings/triggers, but I also put anything I think might be a potential warning up in the beginning notes (and please let me know in the comments always if something wasn't tagged/warned and you think it should have been!)
> 
> Expect lots of fluff/angst (flangst!), hurt/comfort - the road might be bumpy, but if you've ever read anything I've written, you know that it's a HEA guarantee.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks so much for reading <3


	2. At The Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve waits for a text and goes about his normal routine.
> 
> Well, as normal as a routine can be for an Avenger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Steve's POV]
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings: Reference to canonical character death; Super-pining

Steve walks down the ramp of the quinjet, ripping his right glove off and chucking it to the side.

“Hey! Captain Rude! Are you planning to pick that up later?”

He turns at the bottom of the ramp and cocks an eyebrow at Tony, who’s still in the bottom half of his suit, his hands on his hips. Steve barely catches the snort of laughter, and instead freezes his expression so he can look Tony in the eyes as he peels off his left glove slowly.

Tony lifts a finger and points at him. “Don’t - you - _dare_.”

With a lazy flick of his wrist and the accuracy promised to him by the serum, Steve wings his glove right at Tony’s face; it hits him square in the nose and slides off, and Tony’s finger stays in place as he glares at Steve.

“You little - “

Steve turns and sprints for the doors, and Tony howls after him about _patriotism_ and _justice_ and _honor_. A few seconds later, the sound of rocket propulsion ricochets around the hangar as Tony launches himself after Steve, screaming for revenge.

The doors are in sight, and Steve pumps his legs as hard as he can, trying to escape the hangar before -

Half an Iron Man and one full Tony Stark crash into him from the back, and they collapse to the floor in a heap, swatting at each other while cursing creatively. Steve doesn’t really try to stop Tony, not wanting to crush the guy by accident, and they pause for a moment when Nat walks by.

“Boys.” She nods at them as she passes, the doors hissing open with a pleasant _Welcome Back, Ms. Romanov,_ from JARVIS. Right before the doors close behind her, she says in her normal, cool, unaffected tone: “Cap’s ticklish under his tenth left rib, Tony. On the side.”

“What? Helping the enemy?” Steve squawks at Nat, glaring at her upside down from where Tony’s currently trying to pin him to the floor.

“Thanks, Romanov.” Tony springs to action, digging his annoying scientist fingers into Steve’s rib cage, and he seizes up, trying not to howl with laughter.

“Clint! Clint, help me!” He wheezes as Hawkeye wanders past, somehow already sipping a coffee cup, a piece of pizza inexplicably sticking out of a pocket on his leather leggings.

“Huh?” Clint slurps his coffee, and Steve screws his eyes up from laughing, trying to grab Tony’s wrist without breaking it (and it’s been four years since the thaw, almost four since the Chitauri, and Steve’s still trying to figure out how to walk through the world without fucking breaking it). “Oh, are we piling on Cap?” He turns and hands his coffee to Bruce, who’s wearing a pair of sweatpants and a ragged t-shirt, looking more exhausted than Steve feels on any given day. “Awesome!”

Clint dives into the puppy pile, and Steve nearly screams from irritation and amusement. Now that there’s two adversaries, it’s easier for him to divide his attention and strength without threatening either.

“Do you need help, Steven?” Wanda’s appeared at the corner of the hangar, looking nervous; her arms are wrapped around her middle defensively, and the circles under her eyes are larger than they were the last time he saw her, before they went off on this mission - Steve makes a mental note to check in with her as soon as he’s done kicking these idiots’ asses.

“I got it, kid, don’t worry.” Steve flips backwards, freeing himself from Clint and Tony’s clutches. They scramble to their feet, and they engage in a Mexican Standoff (and Steve knows that reference now, thanks, Sam), hands raised stiffly in front of them, half-lunging at times to try to catch the other party off guard.

“Tony, leave Captain Rogers alone and come to the press conference.” All three men snap to attention faster than Hulk can say ‘smash,’ at the voice of Pepper Pots. They guiltily drop their hands to their sides and duck their heads, and Pepper smiles at each of them, walking forward as her heels delicately clip against the cement floor. “Clint, a girl named Kate called for you while you were gone? Something about a dog, and a bag of M&M’s?”

“Man, I was saving those,” Clint whines.

Pepper pauses in front of Steve and grips his arm with a genuinely warm smile. “Welcome back, Captain Rogers. Thanks for saving Tony out there.”

“It was nothing, ma’am.” Steve would mumble from sheer embarrassment of being caught doing _that_ in front of a lady, but Pepper Potts has too much valkyrie-steel in her spine, a little too much Peggy Carter in her eyes, for him to mumble at her. He says it firmly, respectfully, not in what Tony would call his “Cap Voice” but in his actual soldier’s tone. “Glad to be back. Do you need me at the press conference?”

“Oh, that would be lovely, thank you Captain.” She squeezes his arm before letting him go. “Maybe shower first, though?” Pepper eyes the blood splattered over his uniform, and Steve nods, his cheeks feeling warmer than normal.

“And you.” Pepper marches over to Tony, who presses a button at his side - the bottom half of his suit retracts quickly, leaving him wearing athletic pants and a sheepish expression. “What the hell was that, Tony?”

Tony, who quite literally just stared death in the face while taunting a tentacled, toxic-smog-breathing creature that fell through a weird portal and started to hump buildings somewhere in southeast India (yeah, it’s been a day), pales and mumbles something under his breath.

“What was that?”

“I said, _I’m sorry, Pep_.” Tony looks up with sad eyes, and it only hurts Steve a little to see the easy, sweet intimacy that passes between Pepper and her idiotic fiancee. It’s not that he wants to be with Pepper, or Tony, per se (although Tony was definitely Steve’s first crush coming out of the ice, and Pepper, the second), it’s more of the love they share that Steve thinks would be sort of nice to experience for himself once in a while, without the fucking universe stepping in and taking it away.

 _But maybe_ …

He pats his uniform for his phone before remembering that its long-lasting battery had finally died, en route to India. He’ll plug it in while he showers, and maybe he’ll stare at his phone for another few hours, waiting for a text that he probably shouldn’t even be expecting at this point, not when three weeks have gone by (but it was the _holidays,_ and he was probably busy with his family, or doing...whatever it was teachers did when they weren’t at school, so probably sleeping or drinking wine, based on a few movies Steve had seen).

Pepper kisses Tony’s cheek fondly before sighing and gesturing for him to follow her, ostensibly to the press conference. As they walk away, Clint sidles up to Steve with an obnoxious yawn, his arm wrapping around behind Steve’s back.

He catches Clint’s wrist right before he gets to his ribcage. “Don’t.”

“Sorry.” Clint grins at him, his eyes already drooping, and he pats his pockets for a second. “Hey, Banner, can I have my-”

Bruce hands over Clint’s coffee cup before shuffling out the doors, but there’s a noticeable lack of liquid inside. Steve wants to laugh at the heartbroken expression on Clint’s face, but it actually also looks like he might really be sad.

“Aw, coffee, no.” Clint tips the cup over, and not a single drop falls out; his lip quivers tragically.

Steve claps him on the shoulder as he heads to the doors. “JARVIS, can you start coffee preparations on the common floor?”

“Already started, sir.”

Clint sprints past Steve towards the elevators, and when Steve laughs, he realizes the hollow feeling in his chest, which had threatened to rip him in half from the time he woke up in the wrong time all the way until the helicarriers, is almost completely gone.

***

His phone is fully charged after the press conference, which had been mostly uneventful.

At one point, a reporter from a conservative news station had asked, “Captain America, what do you think about the leading presidential candidate’s recent remarks on Twitter? Do you agree with his call to expand border security?” and Nat had to stomp on Tony’s feet to stop him from giggling when Cap leaned into the microphone and said, “Son, I don’t know what a ‘tweetter’ is, but it certainly doesn’t sound very presidential.”

Later, Steve walks through the common floor of the tower, sipping a whey protein and nutrient replacement shake that Tony had created (which didn’t taste like total sludge, which is what they’d fed Steve in the beginning), checking his Twitter feed.

“Did you see that screenshot I sent you, Cap?” Clint asks from his perch above the regular seating. Steve flashes him a thumbs up.

“Harold, they’re lesbians,” he intones, absolutely deadpan, and Clint cackles, swinging his feet back and forth fifteen feet above Steve’s head.

“What? Captain America knows what memes are?” Tony pipes up from the kitchen area, stirring some sort of concoction in a beaker - looking at the bright green color, Steve prays it isn’t meant to be ingested. “That’s weirdly disappointing.”

Steve flops down on the couch, ignoring Tony’s comment. It would have gotten under his skin four years ago, but he’s had too many chats with Sam, and his therapist friend, Dr. Eva, to be too bothered by it now. Tony sucks at showing emotion (and to be honest, so does Steve), and jabs are as close as he can get to expressing affection.

His thumb hesitates over the icon for his missed messages - it still makes him anxious to check missed texts, something that the rest of the team doesn’t tease him for, not after he explained the speed with which texts came through was jarring after a lifetime of having to wait to hear news, good or bad, and the thought of missing a text carrying important information gave him anxiety - before clicking on the text from an unknown number with a Brooklyn area code, sent at 6:30 this morning, the one that had popped up when his phone resurrected, making his heart pound a lot in response.

_[Hey Steve, this is James Barnes. We met in DC, and you gave me your number. I was wondering if your offer to teach a history lesson still stood? Hope everything is good on your end, and I hope to hear from you soon. Happy New Year!]_

It’s a very carefully composed text, and it makes Steve smile. James Barnes couldn’t be older than 25, which makes him what’s apparently called a ‘millennial,’ which honestly sounds pretty derogatory coming out of the mouths of most pundits and people over 40 years old. Given that James is young, it’s strange to see a text that looks more like a letter.

When Wanda or Pietro text him, it’s almost always three to five words, sent in a blast with other short texts. There’s a conversation that he had with Pietro just last week that looks like this -

_Hey Cap_

_Hey_

_Hey Steve!_

_CAP_

_[...Yes Pietro?]_

_can we go get pizza?_

_like the good pizza_

_the one over by the place_

_the one that almost burnt down?_

_you know, the one clint almost burnt down?_

_*pizza emoji*_

_*six pizza emojis*_

_*drooly face*_

_[Yes, I’ll take you. Go get your shoes.]_

_YAAAAAASSSSSS_

Conversely, the texts from Clint, who’s Steve’s biological age, if not chronological age (which sort of makes sense? They’ve argued over who’s older, given that Clint is 31, and Steve is technically sort of turning 31 in July), are a confused stream of emojis that not even Nat can decipher half the time.

So, that must mean James was trying his hardest to write a formal text, and it’s oddly sweet, and honestly comforting, to know that someone else in the world is willing to text in complete goddamn sentences.

Steve fires off a reply before he can second guess himself - James texted him at 6:30 this morning, when he was still flying back, and it’s almost noon now.

[I’d _love to follow up on that_ promise](and he fought against the urge to include a winky face, which Tony insisted was a good way to flirt, and Sam insisted was an easy way to get your ass dumped, and honestly Steve didn’t know who had less game). [ _My schedule is kind of weird, but I’m guessing yours is more set. When would be a good time for_ you?]

There. Normal human interaction with normal human crush complete. Steve wants to blame his photographic memory for how James Barnes is burnt into his mind, but the man had caught his eye long before he stood next to him at the Commandos’ exhibit. Steve had thought he’d stumbled into a daydream when he passed by the tall, slim figure studying a timeline of events around the raid of Azzano.

Grey slacks, a navy blue peacoat that fit so well it should be illegal, and thick, dark brown hair that had been carefully styled away from a face that looked like it was cut from marble - Steve had honestly tripped over his feet when he saw James standing there in the permanent Captain America exhibit. But, he wasn’t there to ogle handsome strangers; he’d only stopped by to see the picture of Peggy, and to read her words - her loss was so fresh, and still found ways to stab at him daily. He was already in town after visiting Sam’s mom and replacing the flowers at Peggy’s grave, so he wandered into the museum to cry for a few seconds while mourning the loss of a life he never got to live.

So, he walked past the most attractive man he’d seen before or after the ice and ducked into the side exhibit with his sketchbook tucked under his arm, fully intending on jimmying the case open and slipping his last portrait of Peggy as an old woman into the display.

Peggy Carter had been beautiful from her first day until her last, and while he treasures every photo he has of her as a young, vivacious special agent, he loved her just as much when she lay in that bed, withered and beyond recognizing him on every day that ended with y.

But while Steve stood there weeping like the romantic fool he was, James had walked up next to him and calmly, gently distracted him from his grief - and apparently, had no idea who Steve was. In a world that was often too busy worrying about the sadness of people so far removed from their lives, they never got a chance to learn actual empathy, Steve was struck by the stranger’s kindness.  And then when he got a chance to actually look at the guy’s face, well.

Steve was, and is, _fucked._

After James had scooted away, mumbling a goodbye, Steve turned to look at Peggy, who seemed to smirk back at him. “Thanks, Peg,” he whispered before pulling his baseball cap down again and leaving the museum.

Now, three weeks later, he’s finally hearing from the guy of his dreams (no, really, Steve’s been having mostly appropriate, but also sometimes inappropriate, dreams about James Barnes), and Steve feels absolutely swell.

He looks up at a sound on his periphery and sees Wanda standing there, wringing her hands together. Again, he notices the circles carved under her eyes.

“Hey.” He holds a hand out to her, and she walks forward carefully, skittishly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nightmares.” She mumbles the word, the weight of it seeming to drape heavily over her slender shoulders. “Getting worse.” Wanda takes Steve’s offered hand, using it to wrap his arm around her shoulders while scooting into his side. She buries her sharp little nose in his chest, and Steve hugs her for a second before loosening his grip.

Wanda doesn’t like to be held too closely. After what happened to her, he can’t blame her.

So, he lets her control the pace of everything, and as she breathes quietly under his arm, he feels a warm, soft spot in his chest. _Is this what having a sibling feels like_?

Steve hasn’t had a family since tuberculosis took his ma, eighty years ago. But after they found the Maximoffs in Hydra captivity last year, he’s been growing closer and closer to the wary, nervous teens - Tony likes to joke that without Steve in their life to follow around “like a bunch of “freaky, terrifying ducklings,” they’d be in “max-imoff SHIELD security by now” - to the point where he’s beginning to feel a sort of fraternal, protective love for them.

Wanda mumbles something else to him, but when Steve looks down at her, she shrugs miserably and shakes her head.

“You don’t have to talk about it right now,” he offers awkwardly. “Later? If you want?”

“Sleep now.” Wanda curls up even more and almost automatically falls asleep.

Clint chucks a blanket at Steve from his nest up above, and he catches it one handed before draping it over Wanda’s sleeping form. Clint signs down at him < _is she going to be okay?_ > using the designated sign for Wanda, a combination of scary and phoenix.

< _I think she just needs to sleep?_ > Steve finishes with a shrug, and a quick < _teenagers_ >,  the weight of Wanda very much welcome against his side. The TV turns on as Bruce wanders over, and he turns the volume off and captions on, squinting up at a documentary on birds. Clint makes an interested _ooo,_ standing gingerly on the beam he’s been sitting on and hopping over so he can see the screen.

Tony walks past on his way down to the lab, and he sets a can of ginger ale down in front of them on the coffee table, and another one of Steve’s not-quite-gross shakes. With a wave, he vanishes through the elevator, and Steve settles in for a drowsy afternoon in front of the tv.

His phone pings, and he tries not to dislodge Wanda in his haste to check it. It’s from James Barnes, and he wonders if his heart’s beating strong enough to physically move the teenager using him as a pillow.

The text is shorter than the first, but the content makes it clear why:

[Thanks! _That’s awesome! Can we plan later? About to start teaching third_ block.]

Steve doesn’t hesitate before responding with a quick, super casual, _Sounds great!_

He considers writing a full paragraph about _how great it sounds,_ and how James Barnes has the prettiest eyes Steve’s ever seen, and how he’s been looking for a colored pencil to match their shade since he first saw them, but that would be super not casual.

The elevator doors ping, and there’s a breeze against the back of Steve’s neck; he looks up, and sure enough, Pietro Maximoff is standing in front of him, hand on his hip as he studies his sister, now snoring and slightly drooling on Steve’s last clean shirt.

“I thought I’d find her here.” Pietro even adds a little roll of the eyes to the end, a worrisome habit he seems to have picked up from Nat (and Pietro and Nat are the last two people who should be friends on this team, Steve is absolutely sure. Between her brain and his speed and their proclivity for what Clint calls ‘trolling,’ it’s a match made in hell).

Steve shushes him, gesturing at Wanda, and Pietro rolls his eyes again - until Steve lifts his free arm and an eyebrow. Pietro huffs at him, clearly about to make a smart ass comment, but then there’s another unsettling breeze, one strong enough for even Bruce to look away, blinking, from his documentary, and Pietro’s settled in at Steve’s side, a blanket thrown over his lap.

And, just as fast as he can run, the kid’s asleep.

***

“Can you - a little to the left! - Can you please help when he texts back?” Steve gives his best puppy dog eyes to Sam, who groans and shakes his head.

“If my mama knew that I was giving _love advice_ to Captain America like he was a sad, bespeckled nerd in middle school, I bet she’d take your picture down off the fridge.”

“Please?” Steve continues to pout, knowing that eventually it would work. “C’mon Sam, please? He’s-”

“Beautiful, perfect, adorable, and fate potentially brought you two together?” Sam sighs and shakes his head at him. “You’ve been talking about this guy for like three weeks straight, Steve.”

“Not that straight,” Steve mutters quietly enough that only Sam can hear him, and Sam snorts and shoves him with one hand. “It’s just, he finally texted me back, and he’s so cool, and he probably thinks _I’m_ supposed to be cool-”

“You wear your pants to your ribcage, Rogers, no one thinks you’re cool.” Sam dodges the hand Steve swipes towards him, and then shouts, “No! You can’t lock your knees like that when he lets go!”

Steve watches as Clint misses the rope net they’ve rigged from the high ceiling of the training room, and careens back down to the ground, where Thor is waiting, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“A valiant effort, friend!” He roars, darting to catch Clint before he crashes into the ground. “Most worthy! Perhaps if I adjust the angle from which I throw you?”

“Yeet!” Clint screeches as Thor throws him once again.

“Yeet indeed, my good friend! Yeet!”

Bruce walks through the door, and even Thor turns quickly to see if Dr. Banner’s going to scold them for using the training equipment so ill; but, Bruce surprises all of them and takes a tablet out, eyeing Clint’s trajectory. “How much force are you exerting to throw Clint at that angle?” He asks curiously, and Thor grins manically before reaching out without looking to catch Clint one-handed in a way that makes Sam and Steve wince (and Clint says, “aw, ribs, no.”)

While the Danger Duo and Dr. Banner start to look over some diagrams that Bruce draws with one finger on his tablet, Steve returns to bugging Sam.

“It’s almost 4:30, which means he’ll be texting soon. And I don’t want to mess this up.”

“I mean, you got the guy to text you, man. That’s half the battle. And you’ve charmed him so far, you don’t need to worry about him suddenly deciding he doesn’t like you.”

“We don’t know if he likes me,” Steve mumbles, staring down at his shoes and feeling five foot four again.

“Dude. Look at you. He likes you.”

“James Barnes is an appreciator of history and the arts, he is _not_ shallow!” Steve protests, and the look Sam gives him is best described as withering.

“You are the most perfect intersection of history and art that’s ever existed, dumbass.” Steve’s phone pings before Sam can continue mean-complimenting him, and Steve dives for it.

“He says he can do next Wednesday at 1:30!” Steve looks up with round eyes. “But that’s only six days from now! What if I don’t have time to prepare?”

“I guess we’ll just wash your hair on Sunday night instead of Tuesday, darling.” Sam eyes Steve as he hunches over his StarkTech phone, trying to piece together a coherent reply that isn’t sixteen thousand exclamation points. “God, that is _painful,_ trying to watch you text. Gimme that.” Sam swipes his phone and starts to text without looking, instead glaring at Steve. “Like watching my Granny try to figure out Snapchat, I swear to God.”

Steve smiles at him sheepishly. “Thanks, Sam.”

“I said, _Do you want to meet up for lunch?_ You know, like a normal person. Now you can clarify what kind of date it’s going to be.”

Steve nods eagerly, making grabby hands at his phone. “Incredible. Hey, do you think he’d like the bike?”

“Everyone likes the bike. Wear that leather jacket, and maybe you’ll get dinner, too.”

His cheeks heat up right as his phone pings again - and, an odd thought occurs to him as he goes to check the message.

_Wednesday….1:30...Barnes is a -_

The blood drains from his face. Steve realizes his fatal error too late, and he’s left staring at the StarkTech phone, dwarfed by his massive, dumb hands.

“Uh?” Sam pokes him in the arm. “Calling Captain America. You there, Cap?”

Steve doesn’t even blink, too frozen by horror. Sam mumbles a swear word that would typically have Steve jokingly admonishing him before snatching the phone away again.

“No, don’t worry, the students have A-Block lunch, and I’ll prep them beforehand so they’ll have good questions. I’ll let the front office...know...you’re coming…” Sam reads the words slowly, disbelief coloring his tone. “Oh my _God._ ”

“Oh my God,” Steve agrees, convinced that he can feel the earth spinning treacherously under his too-big feet.

“How exactly did you ask him out, again?” Sam’s staring at the message, an evil grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I said” - Steve clears his throat awkwardly - “That I’d...love to...teach him some history...sometime.”

Sam looks at him in shock before howling with laughter, bending slightly at the waist as tears of mirth leak from his eyes. “Ohhhh, man,” he hoots. “Oh man, oh man, oh man.”

Steve slaps a hand to his face and wills the earth to swallow him whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Poor Steve...)
> 
> You guys were SO kind with chapter one, it made me want to write chapter two and post it much ahead of schedule!!! :))))
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you so much! I hope you enjoyed Steve's POV.
> 
> We'll get the two together in the same spot next chapter!
> 
> If you were curious, [here's what Bucky looks like in this fic](https://ilarge.lisimg.com/image/412717/740full-sebastian-stan.jpg) (aka Sebastian Stan at age 25/26):
> 
> And Steve is in his full beardy goodness (his hair will be blonde for most of the story, it was dyed when he met Bucky as he'd just finished an undercover mission)


	3. At School

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve guest lectures in Bucky's classroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, our heroes get to spend some time together in this chapter ;)
> 
> ~Bucky POV~
> 
> Warnings for the chapter:
> 
> Bucky is a highly anxious person (as mentioned in Ch. 1, he suffers from C-PTSD, as a result of abuse (which is tagged in the overall fic tags)) and has extreme self-doubt/negative thoughts. A lot of this stems from gaslighting/negging he experienced while in a toxic relationship.
> 
> Reference to canonical death of a mother

The holidays happen.

Reasonably, Bucky understands that the holidays, being what they are, happen each year, around the same time, but it doesn’t mean they don’t slap him in the face every goddamn time.

He’d met Steve Rogers in the second week of December, on the fifth day of Chanukah; his class trip had largely taken up his time and attention for a majority of that holiday - but it didn’t stop him from glaring his way through the rest of the month, squirming at the bright decorations and warm-tinted advertisements purring about love and happiness and family.

It’s not that Bucky begrudges anyone else in the world happiness - it’s just that it’s really, really fucking exhausting to see what everyone else has, 24/7, the functional (straight, Christian) family unit broadcast as the one and only kind of lifestyle acceptable to the rest of society. Bucky isn’t straight, isn’t Christian, and he sure as hell doesn’t have a family to celebrate shit with.

So, he drags himself to therapy four times in December, works his way through at least six dozen Lean Cuisines, half-assedly runs on the treadmill five times a week, and spends the two weeks of winter break curled up in a Iron Man onesie, under eighty blankets, his phone open to one person’s number.

_ Just text him,  _ his brain rationalizes on the first day of break.  _ He said he wanted to “teach” you about history.  _

But did he? Bucky wracks his brain over and over again, replaying the moment Steve Rogers smiled at him, and doubts the reason why a famous, beautiful superhero - with those legs, and that chest, and those arms, and that  _ face  _ \- would even want to flirt with a sad sack like him. A voice that’s entirely his own, and entirely someone else’s, invades the memory, tinging the almost golden, happy quality of it with something sour, something grey, and each time Bucky replays it, he grows less optimistic about the captain’s insinuation. 

_ He knows you’re a teacher.  _ Just a teacher.

_ He probably realized you’ve had a crush on him since you were twelve years old.  _ Pathetic.

_ He was just being kind.  _ To a sad, little loser.

_ He meant he’d teach a history lesson to your  _ class,  _ jackass.  _ As if he’d ever want to just spend time with you. 

By the time Christmas has passed but the decorations and aggressive marketing around it haven’t quite faded, Bucky’s convinced himself that he entirely misremembered the whole thing. Ten minutes after saying goodbye to Steve Rogers, he’d been convinced that maybe someone was interested in him - but fifteen days later, he’s remembered who he is, and why his memory - shoddy as it is - would trick him like that.

Of course, Steve Fucking Rogers wouldn’t be interested in him. What a ridiculous idea. 

On New Year’s Eve, he finds himself watching  _ When Harry Met Sally,  _ pretending that the thought of watching this with his little sister doesn’t eat at the back of his throat like acid, approaching the countdown alone in his apartment.

A couple teachers closer to his age had invited him to a party, but Bucky had talked himself out of going last second. He hasn’t been the most fun person to be around for a whole month, and he’s got a feeling that his co-workers wouldn’t really appreciate him not being the life of the party. He’s only 25, for fuck’s sake, the youngest teacher at his school by more than five years. There’s constant jokes at work about how Bucky, the true millennial in the school building, should be schooling them all in how to party, how to use social media, how to be  _ young  _ \- but honestly, Bucky was born middle-aged (something his mother used to say to him, but he can’t think about that), and all he ever really wants to do is sit on his couch, drink wine, and binge watch Netflix.

If he showed up in all his peak-depression-glory, they’d just be disappointed in him, and the idea of Bucky as a fun, hip young person would be shattered, and he’d be even further away from making friends with his co-workers. So, he’ll stay friendly with them, and hide how sad his life is, and it will all work out.

Bucky cracks his neck out and spies the photo of Becca on his side table. He looks at it for a long second, still wallowing, and he swears her smirk in the photo - that classic smirk of a twelve year old who was too smart for her own damn good - broadens at him.

_ Chicken shit,  _ she’d say. 

“Bawk, bawk,” Bucky mutters, turning the volume up on Billy Crystal, and down on his thoughts.

***

On his first morning back at school, Bucky glares down at his planning book, the pen tapping against the page. They’re coming up on the Great Depression and World War II in his lectures, and he knows he can’t reasonably avoid the text message now. So, he sighs, shoots a text off into the unknown (after proofreading it a thousand times, his eye twitching), and figures he’ll never get a response.

Six hours later, Bucky almost drops his phone into the toilet in the staff bathroom when his phone pings during his lunch break.

Four hours after that, Bucky’s got the Star-Spangled Man With a Plan confirmed as his guest lecturer, and about six days to quietly panic.

***

Bucky paces his room anxiously on Wednesday, the outfit he spent an hour picking out last night getting more and more wrinkled from the relentless movement. He ended up with dark purple slacks, and a tucked-in grey button down, with his favorite Converse on his feet. Sure, they’re a little childish, with the Lorax painted on the side, but they’re comforting, and each time Bucky feels like squeaking and hiding under his desk, he looks down at the whiskered, tree-loving misanthrope and feels a little better about all of this.

“ _ Mr. Barnes _ ?” The overhead PA crackles to life, and Bucky freezes guiltily before remembering the front office secretary can’t actually see him wearing a groove into his floor.

“Uhh - yeah?” 

“ _ Your visitor is here. _ ”

“Thanks.” Bucky hops up and down and checks his armpits for sweat stains, beyond grateful none of the kids asked to eat in his room today. “Be right there.” He wipes his face with his hand, terrified to discover sweat beading his forehead, and he grabs a dozen Kleenex to rectify the situation. He pumps some hand sanitizer from the dispenser near the door, wrings his hands half a dozen times, and checks his classroom for any errant mess or anything weird.

There’s not much he can do at this point to hide his massive Howling Commandos poster, or the project a few of the kids did on Black Widow and Project Insight earlier their year, but he hopes Steve will find it charming and not creepy that evidence of his life is present in the place Bucky teaches. He has to know he’s important to history, right?

_ Right _ ?

Bucky ends up booking it to the front of the building to make up for the two minute panic he had in his room, and he bursts into the office no doubt sweating once more. “H-hey, Cheryl.” He smiles in a definitely alarming way at their secretary. “Visitor?”

Cheryl’s eyes are wide, but not from his own disheveled appearance. She nods and gestures over Bucky’s shoulder to the waiting area - he turns and almost collapses in a tragic heap on the floor at the sight of Steve Rogers awkwardly crammed into a chair created for someone half his size.

“Captain!” Bucky hurries forward, hand extended. “Thank you so much-”

“It’s not a problem. And like I said, you can call me Steve.” Bucky prays he didn’t just imagine the stress Steve put on  _ you,  _ as if it were special permission, as if Bucky were special.

Now that Steve’s standing, Bucky’s physically reminded of how much larger Steve is than him: his broad shoulders aren’t the least bit hidden by his hideous plaid cotton button down, and neither are his legs made less muscular by the baggy khakis he’s wearing. His hair is back to blonde, now and -

“Your beard.” Bucky almost reaches up to touch Steve’s jaw before he clenches his hand in a fist and drops it to his side. Steve doesn’t seem to notice Bucky’s tactical error and grins sheepishly.

“Yeah. All gone, as of this morning.” He touches his jaw thoughtfully, and Bucky wonders how soft his skin is.  _ Calm down, Buffalo Bill.  _  “Figured your kids might want to see me looking more...y’know. Like the textbook, and not some scruffy, ill-kempt stranger.”

“I liked it.” It slips out before Bucky can stop it. “Your beard. You looked handsome with it.”

Cheryl makes a noise of alarm behind the desk, one that echoes in Bucky’s mind. Everyone on the staff knows he’s gay, of course, and everyone on staff is more than fine with it - but Cheryl’s probably alarmed because of how openly Bucky just announced his super-crush on the superhero standing in the office.

Steve’s cheeks turn pink, and he ducks his head, smiling. “Aw, shucks.” He looks up at Bucky in that should-be-illegal way, through his eyelashes. “Really?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Bucky clears his throat and jerks his head towards the door. “Stop fishing for compliments, Rogers.” He starts walking, hands crammed in his pockets, and hears a dry laugh behind him.

Steve walks at his side, a ball cap now crammed low over his ears, the brim hiding his face pretty well, as well as the sunglasses he’s wearing. He’s got another sketchbook, this one floppier and larger than the last one he had, tucked under his arm, and he’s lugging a box full of what Bucky could best describe as  _ stuff.  _

“Y’know, we don’t usually let people wear baseball hats inside,” Bucky comments idly. His eyes widen at the statement - this is Steve  _ fucking  _ Rogers, he can wear a baseball hat wherever the fuck he wants.

It earns him another laugh, though. “Ms. Roberts said I could wear it. To keep a low profile.” Steve leans in, and Bucky flushes at how close they are now. “My...handlers...don’t exactly know I’m here.”

“Ah.” Bucky fidgets for a second as they turn the corner towards his classroom. He points towards his door before speaking again. “That’s gotta be hell, having everyone look at you all the time.”

“It is.” Steve shrugs as though it doesn’t bother him, but at the same time, like it really bothers him. 

“Well, I told my kids if I saw a single phone out during your presentation, I’d take out my toolbox and smash it with a hammer.”

“I don’t know if that would delete the photo,” Steve says doubtfully. “I’ve been hearing an awful lot about a cloud?”

“Ugh, the cloud.” Bucky makes a face as he unlocks the door to his classroom. He gestures for Steve to go in first before following him in and flicking on the lights. “Don’t get me started on the cloud.”

“What if I want to get you started?” Steve’s grin is teasing, and maybe even - no. Bucky’s established this already. Someone who looks like  _ that  _ does not flirt with someone like him.

“Well, then…” Bucky trails off, gesturing uselessly while turning to wipe the whiteboard clean, and prays Steve can’t see him blush from the back (but can feel heat creeping up his spine all the same, threatening to expose him with the bright red color of embarrassment).

“Hey, James?”  - Bucky tenses, remembering that he hasn’t told Steve not to call him that yet - “There is something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh, yeah?” There’s no earthly reason why butterflies should choose this second to erupt in Bucky’s stomach, but they make sure he takes his sweet ass time in finishing up cleaning the board and turning around, wiping non-existent dust off on his pants. “What about?”

“About the day we met. Uh -” Steve Rogers is shuffling his feet and staring at the floor, something that gives Bucky pause. His anxiety tells his mouth to run off before the logical side of his brain can get control, and he does what he does best. Babble. Babble before Steve can crush Bucky’s hopes or call him out for his obvious crush  _ on _ Steve -

“No, no, no, I figured you were only being polite with the offer to guest lecture. I just - I thought, hell, might as well try, you know? Because my kids would really love to talk to you, seriously, I’ve never seen them this excited, and I’d be a shit teacher if I didn’t try to do the best by my students, and I know you probably had a hundred better things to do today, so -”

Steve’s staring at Bucky, which does not help the babbling. 

“- _ So,  _ I just wanted to say...thank you? Like, I’m forever in your debt.” - Bucky realizes he’s been holding his left foot awkwardly off the ground, which is something he’s certainly fucking sure he’s done all of fucking never in his life, but hey, Steve Rogers brings out the most awkward in him, so it’s par for the course - “Which is...totally a thing people say in this century.” - his foot clunks to the floor, and Bucky’s eyes follow it, refusing to look at Steve - “Yep. Totally.”

“No, that’s not what I wanted to say.” Steve’s voice is gentle, and Bucky can hear him take a few steps towards him. “Were you really worried about...bothering me, James? Is that why you didn’t use my number for three weeks?”

_ Twenty-three days,  _ Bucky wants to mulishly correct Steve, but he doesn’t. But then there’s a jolt up his spine -  _ Steve noticed that Bucky didn’t use his number for three weeks? _

“It’s Bucky.” He looks up and sees Steve still staring steadily at him, his bright blue eyes almost unreal in the fluorescence of his classroom. “I - I go by Bucky.”

“Bucky?” Steve asks softly, with a smile so sweet it makes his stomach ache. 

“My middle name’s Buchanan,” he mumbles, so used to the question it isn’t even defensive anymore. “James Buchanan Barnes. There were like fifty Jameses in my kindergarten class, and my little sister couldn’t say Buchanan - I had a built-in nickname.”

“I like it. Bucky.” Steve says Bucky’s name like it  _ means  _ something, and that does absolutely fuck all to tame the aching in his gut. 

No one’s ever said his name like that before, and he’s positive he has stars in his eyes; he doesn’t bother to hide them because Steve’s looking at him like Bucky’s something soft, something to be looked at more than once, something good, and he gnaws on his lip for a second (and definitely  _ doesn’t  _ imagine the way Steve’s eyes track the movement, which could just be a soldier’s eyes if not for the way Steve’s cheeks - now blessedly unhidden by a beard - turn pink). He’s just about to do something about that when -

The end of lunch bell screams, and Bucky definitely doesn’t miss the way Steve winces at the unexpected sound. 

“Sorry, I should have warned you.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” There’s a line of tension in Steve’s shoulders that wasn’t there before, and Bucky wants to wilt. “Sorry, but - I guess I’m just nervous? Been about a century since I was in a high school.”

“The kids are gonna love you,” Bucky says with a grin, already headed to prop his door open. “But - you might want to sit behind the desk?”

“Why?” Steve blinks before the flood of students rushing past the door answers his question. “Oh.”

Steve slouches over to sit behind Bucky’s desk, and Bucky wants to giggle hysterically at how massive he looks in Bucky’s chair -  _ God, Steve could bench press him with zero effort, and that is  _ not  _ something to think about when you’re about to have  _ -

“Hey, Mr. Barnes!” Shana shows up first, and Bucky waves at her. 

“Hey, Shana. Do you mind lining up in the hallway today?” 

Shana peeks behind him and sees Steve at the desk - he gives her an awkward, adorable half wave, looking massively unsure of himself, and she makes an inhuman noise before nodding. “Sure thing!” She walks backwards, eyes looking everywhere that isn’t right at Steve, and stations herself outside Bucky’s door. 

The rest of the students fall in behind her - Christophe looks half-asleep, and Bucky slips him a chocolatey protein bar he had stashed in his pocket, which brightens him up a little (he knows for a  _ fact  _ Christophe hoards his food to give to his little sister, who’s a freshman this year and even more painfully thin than her brother) - and after Bucky’s counted all nineteen students, he gestures for them to file in. 

“Go right to your seat, and absolutely no weird crap at all, got it?”

“Got it,” a few of them answer, and Bucky grins briefly. 

They do walk in with much more self-control than normal, and Bucky’s more than thankful that they’re helping to make him look halfway useful in front of Steve (who’s still hiding at the desk, looking more and more nervous). One kid hands him a late research brief, which Bucky accepts with a smile and a nod when the kid mumbles an apology for its lateness, and then every kid is in their seat.

The late bell rings, and Bucky clears his throat - “Good afternoon. As you all know, today we have an incredibly important guest in the classroom, and I’ll let him do most of the talking. Go ahead and get your questions out” - over half the students already have their typed, printed notes on their desks - “And show me your phone screens as you turn them off.”

Eighteen kids (some giggling and whispering, but not anything unexpected) comply, and Marza doesn’t. Bucky knows better than to call her out though - she monitors her blood sugar on her phone, and she needs to have it out on her desk at all times. She knows that she’s got an exception, and he trusts her not to take photos of Steve.

“Alright - Captain Rogers?” Bucky eyes him nervously, suddenly aware that he hasn’t asked Steve what he prefers to be called. Steve stands up quickly, smoothing out wrinkles that don’t exist on his khakis, and walks to the front of the classroom.

“Hey, uh - you guys can call me Steve, okay?” Steve rubs his neck, and Bucky shoots him an apologetic look. It’s wild how someone so huge can manage to look so small, and Bucky almost regrets following up on Steve’s offer. “So - uh - go ahead and ask away?”

Every hand shoots up in the air, and Steve eyes it warily. Bucky snorts and hands him a tin can of popscicle sticks. “Just pick one at random.”

Steve grabs one and reads the name. “Evan.”

Evan stands at his desk as eighteen other hands drop from the air and clears his throat. “Captain - Steve?” - nervous giggles break out, and Evan grins. Even Steve relaxes noticeably - “What patterns from pre-war American society do you notice re-emerging today?”

Steve blinks and looks over at Bucky, who shoots him an encouraging thumbs up. 

“Well-” Steve shuffles his feet for a second before seemingly tapping into a well of inner strength. He stands up straight, tilts his head, and looks right at Evan as he responds. “That’s an interesting one. There’s a few things that I notice that are honestly similar to what I saw in the 30s and early 40s. I’m lucky enough to live only a few blocks away from where I grew up, and I see a lot of similarity in the way immigrants and the children of immigrants work together to form communities in a new country. Sure, that means enclaves pop up where people seem to think that like has to stick with like - which can be a huge issue when working to overcome oppression of minorities - but it also means people watch out for each other, and people can retain their culture in a new and confusing place.”

Everyone’s scribbling notes furiously on their paper, and Steve looks a little surprised by this - like they’d care about what he’d have to say - but he keeps going (and Bucky realizes he should probably stop propping his chin in his hand so he can stare, moony-eyed, at the handsome guest speaker). 

“There’s a lot of similarities between my generation and yours, as well.” Some nervous titters break out, and Steve grins at them, suddenly much more at ease, judging by the line of his shoulders. “I’m not kidding! We all grew up in weird economic times, and during troubling resurgences of anti-minority sentiment. We also have very fatalistic, pessimistic senses of humor - have you all studied Dadaism yet?”

Bucky thanks all the stars above that he thought to send Steve a syllabus on Sunday. 

A few kids nod in recognition - truthfully, they briefly discussed it, but they only went in depth on the topic if they wanted to. 

“Yeah, so there isn’t a whole lot different between our senses of humor, and the way we approach upsetting issues. Surrealism, pop art, mocking the meaninglessness of modern society and tech - that’s nothing new. A lot of your generation’s memes honestly tickle me pink.”  _ He just used that phrase unironically, God, he’s cute. _

Focus Barnes.

“We might get accused of being glibe or being too sarcastic, or not taking things serious enough, but at the end of the day, we seek to address the wrong in our world, in a way that older generations don’t.”

How separate Steve must feel from his time period suddenly slams into Bucky, who’s spent the last nine years of his life thinking he doesn’t fit in anywhere. 

His reverie is broken by Steve shuffling around in the popsicle sticks again. “Margot?”

She pops up from behind her desk with a big grin. “What is one thing that existed in the past that doesn’t today?”

“Normal bananas,” Steve answers without thinking. “But actually - can you hand me that box, Mr. Barnes?”

Bucky freezes when Steve points over to the desk, and he stands up, clearing his throat. Heat crawls to his face as he looks doubtfully inside - the assorted items in there (a rotary, a few thick-spined books, a couple cast iron pieces) suggest that it weighs around forty pounds. He eyes it, doubting if he can-

“Let me grab that for you, Mr. Barnes!” Tom Myers jumps up and snags the box, and Bucky gives him a grateful smile.

“Thanks, Myers.” Tom nods cheerfully and hands the box to Steve, who doesn’t look like he caught on to Bucky’s discomfort at all. Tom sits back down, and Bucky’s overwhelmed with a strange, squishy affection for his class of weirdos.

Steve continues talking - bringing up how his neighborhood was considered a LGBT community in the 30s and 40s, how he almost died ten times before the age of fifteen due to the lack of adequate health care, how his mother died of tuberculosis and how no one blinked an eye before she was a poor Irish immigrant.

He gets a little misty-eyed talking about his mother, but then Jayden raises his hand, and Steve nods at him.

“My mother died when I was twelve,” Jayden offers, shifting in his seat. Bucky gives him a look of controlled surprise - Jayden  _ hates  _ talking about his mother. “It really - it sucked. And it was even worse because what she had...it could have been fixed, but we didn’t have health insurance.”

“That’s bullshit.” The kids all sit up straight at Steve’s scowl and epithet. “That is absolutely - I am sorry - Jayden, was it?” Jayden nods, arms wrapped around his middle. “Your mother should have received proper care. And my mother too. We gotta remember everything they gave us, and how much brighter they made the world - carry on their legacy and fight for a better future for people like ‘em.”

There’s time for one more question, and Olivia is the last to go. 

She astounds them all when she asks: “Do you think it was ethical that the United States government allowed you to participate in the trial, knowing that you didn’t have a full high school education, were desperate to join the army, and had been made to feel like you had nothing to lose?”

That certainly fucking  _ wasn’t  _ on her list of prepared questions, and Bucky wants to crawl under his desk and wish for death, and/or speak sternly to Olivia about appropriate questions.

Steve looks at her steadily, something considering and thoughtful in his expression. After a long moment, he says - “Yeah. It wasn’t ethical. But, if I had the chance again, I’d take it. Because I don’t defend the United States government. I defend the ideals listed in the Constitution - life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I defend immigrants, and refugees seeking a better life, here under the shadow of the statue of liberty. And not only do I have the profound responsibility to defend the lives of those in this country, but also the rest of the world. And without the experiment, I wouldn’t be able to do that.”

Silence meets his question, and then the bell rings - Steve stiffens again, but Bucky’s also caught off guard, because not a single one of his students has risen to grab their bags and leave, even as the sound of other students running in the hallway begins.

Then:

Each kid stands - as if they had planned it - to clap for Steve. He ducks his head bashfully, and every student lines up to shake his hand and thank him. Bucky’s left staring at his kids, who he definitely loves but also who he receives tension headaches from at least twice a week, very much overwhelmed by the emotion in the room.

They exit to make it to their fourth period, which just leaves Bucky and Steve in the room. Bucky weirdly feels like crying, but he has a feeling Steve wouldn’t hold that against him.

“Thank you,” Bucky holds his hand out to Steve, his voice rough - he notices the firmness of the callouses on Steve’s palm and fingers (from the shield, maybe?), the way electricity seems to seep out of Steve’s skin (whether that’s the formula or the maybe more-than-crush Bucky has on him is anyone’s guess). “That was - holy shit, I never could have imagined helping them get information like that, seriously, I just -”

“Owe me one?” Steve asks with a grin, and Bucky winces, because  _ yeah,  _ that was what he said.

“Mhm.” He nods, flushing, and releases Steve’s hand, something tightening in his gut, something that regrets the loss of contact. 

“Well, if you owe me one” - Steve leans back against a desk, half-sitting on it, his arms crossed in front of his ridiculous chest in a way that makes his ridiculous biceps stick out (you guessed it,  _ ridiuculously _ ) - “Maybe you could just...consider going on a date with me?”

“Mmm-w--gurhuh?” Bucky stares at him in shock, unsure if any normal human’s ever made the noise he just uttered. His face has approached nuclear levels of blushing at this point, and Steve’s smile widens, his eyes squinting up in a pleasant, sweet way. 

“I thought I had been more clear earlier, when I asked to teach you somethin’” Steve buries his face in his hands. “...Oh jeez. My pal, Sam, you’d like him, he made fun of me for like six hours. A day. Since you texted.”

“Oh.” Bucky’s thrown off by how not-suave Steve’s being -  _ stars, they’re just like us!  _ \- and he feels the need to comfort him. “I mean, I definitely thought that.” Steve perks up at that, and Bucky offers him a shy smile. “Then I thought - y’know. I mean, look at me.” He gestures at himself awkwardly with his right hand, his left still buried in his pocket; he can feel his shoulders approaching his ears.

“I am.” Steve’s gaze doesn’t waver, and Bucky blushes in a different way, from the direct way Steve looks at him, like he’s  _ worth it  _ \- and just like how no one’s ever said Bucky’s name like Steve, no one’s ever  _ looked  _ at Bucky like Steve. 

“Yeah, well.” His right hand ends up in a pocket too, mainly so he avoids touching Steve (just to make sure this isn’t a cruel, cruel dream, of course). “Then you know.”

“I know I want to go on a date with you.” Steve’s gaze returns to being off-puttingly steady, and Bucky squirms, wanting to duck behind his desk or make jokes until it goes away. “I was kidding about it being a favor - your students were great, and you don’t owe me shit - but I’m definitely not kidding about wanting to take you on a date.”

“You move fast, Captain Rogers,” Bucky mumbles, trying to meet Steve’s eyes, but it’s seriously, honestly like staring at the fucking sun, if the sun was six foot four and 250 pounds of All-American Beefcake (with a heart of gold and a smile sweeter than -  _ get it the fuck together, Barnes _ ).

“Maybe I’m tired of waiting.” 

“Waiting for what?”

“The right partner.” Steve looks like he surprises even himself with that line, and some sort of melancholy sets into his expression. Bucky  _ again  _ feels the need to correct any kind of sadness in Steve Rogers, so -

“I’d love to go on a date with you.” He weaves his fingers together for something to look at that isn’t Steve. “I mean. Obviously.”

“Yeah?” It’s soft, shy, and Bucky nods hastily, trying to reassure him - without actually looking at him - his eyes dart to the window, and he clears his throat.

“Name the day, I’ll be there. And I won’t even bring my students.” He adds the last part with a grin, and Steve laughs brightly. 

“How about right now?”

“Right now?” Bucky squeaks in shock, looking at the clock - it isn’t even 2:45. 

“Yes? Unless you have another class?” Steve’s smiling at him fondly when he looks over, and Bucky cringes.

“No. No class - I just - I have planning?”

“Skip it.” Steve grins at him evilly, and Bucky shakes his head, his lips pursed.

“I can’t just  _ skip  _ work.”

“Why not?”

“Because I like paying bills! I like my job! I can’t just  _ skip  _ work!”

“Sure you can.” Steve Rogers  _ knows  _ he’s fucking adorable when he tilts his head and looks at Bucky through lowered lashes, and Bucky’s already taking notes for the civil suit he’s going to launch against this asshole. “Tell ‘em there’s a national emergency.”

“Jerk.” Bucky crosses his right arm in front of him and grips his left forearm.

“Punk.” Steve scoots forward, somehow dragging the desk with him. “C’mooooon.”

“You.” Bucky gives him his best teacher glare, finger raised. “You are an absolute nuisance.”

“Been called worse.” His grin is lecherous. “By a lot worse-lookin’.”

“You are a threat to society,” Bucky warns, now wagging his finger. “Education and work are two pillars of our community!”

“Mhm. Heard that one, too.” Steve is unrepentant, and Bucky can’t help the smile that spreads across his face, and he can’t help the blush either (he’s blushed more in the last two hours than he has since middle school). “Please?”

“No.” Bucky shakes his head firmly, his cheeks aching from trying to restrain his smile. Steve Rogers has apparently  _ also  _ perfected the kicked-puppy-dog look because a second later Bucky regrets his adamance. “I definitely want to,” he says more softly. “Definitely. But I do have a meeting in fifteen minutes that I can’t cancel on.”

“Okay.” Steve looks up at him with a gentle smile and stands up from the desk at last. “I’m sorry for pushin’ you so hard.”

“Don’t be.” Bucky waves his hand because he honestly doesn’t mind - Steve was sweet, not threatening (it helped that he stayed seated for the whole joking conversation) - “It’s flattering that you’d want to spend time with me.”

“Of course I do.” There’s that  _ damn  _ soft voice and that  _ damn  _ soft look again. Bucky’s only human. 

“I’m free on Friday night?” He says with a question mark at the end, in case Steve wants to back out or has some scheduled hero-ing to do on Friday nights. He’s free Thursday too, but if the date goes poorly, Bucky isn’t sure he’ll be able to rally for school on Friday.

“I am too.” Steve shoves his hands in the pockets of his jackets after settling his cap back on his head. “D’you mind walking a fella out? I don’t think I remember the way.”

Bucky’s done thousands of pages of reading on Captain America and the Howling Commandos in his lifetime, so he knows Steven Grant Rogers has an eidetic memory and a perfect grasp of any sort of map or layout - which he how he knows that’s a total bullshit line to spend more time with him.

So, glowing with an amount of happiness that should be illegal, Bucky walks Steve to the front entrance, shakes his hand -  _ and if Friday goes well, maybe more than hand-shaking, next time?!?  _ \- and thanks him once more.

Steve pushes the door open, but props it with his shoulder before turning around to smile at Bucky one, last, heartbreaking time.

“Friday?” He asks, almost uncertainly.

“Friday. I’ll be home by six,” Bucky promises, and Steve nods, once, looking pleased.

Bucky tries not to let his jaw drop when he sees Steve jump onto the prettiest motorcycle he’s ever seen - not that he knows anything about motorcycles, but he knows what looks nice, and Steve Rogers in a leather jacket riding a massive motorcycle looks  _ nice  _ \- and drive off onto the main street.

“Well, shit,” he says, still standing there long after Steve’s disappeared from sight.

“Yep.” Bucky startles at the voice of his principal, Tonya Samson, who’s standing a few feet away from him, also staring off in the direction Steve went. “You can say that again.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally!!!!
> 
> Next chapter is Steve's POV and maybe some of that date ;)
> 
> Thank you again for all your lovely comments and support and kudos with this fic! I hope to post another update this weekend!!!!


	4. At Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve continues his week while waiting to go on his date with Bucky; thankfully, he'll make it to this date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: When the team is on the comms with each other, their dialogue is set up as <"Dialogue"> This way, it makes it more clear who's near who, and if a character engages with dialogue off-comms, it's more clear. 
> 
>  
> 
> Spoilery warning for coming out to friends in the end notes (if that's something that could bother you!)
> 
> Otherwise---
> 
> Steve POV. Cartoonish violence while fighting robot hoards. Steve style pining. Inappropriate gifts from Thor.
> 
> Slight warning: more hints of Steve liking to be called sir (ahem), and Bucky liking a little more submissive role. Mildly suggestive phone flirting.

[ _Did you hear what the history teacher told the student who asked what would be on the test?_ ]

Steve eyes his phone longingly as he fastens his cowl in place. He regrets sending the text this morning - their date isn’t even until tomorrow night, what if he jumped the gun - and while he’s tried to convince himself that maybe Bucky hasn’t texted back because he’s at work, helping to mold the minds of America’s future, the creeping thought that maybe he outdid his welcome has officially settled into first place in Steve’s brain.

He isn’t sure how texting works: he texted Bucky to confirm the time and Bucky’s address yesterday, and Bucky had answered; then, Steve had said something innocuous like “sounds great, see you then!” and three evil, tiny, mocking dots had appeared at the bottom of the screen, on and off, off and on, but fourteen hours later, and _no text from Bucky._

Steve’s brain went to panic - maybe those radioactive alligators had burst into the sewers again, and Bucky’s train had been attacked - maybe Bucky had to fight off a dozen agents of Doctor Doom at once - maybe Bucky tripped and smashed his phone - before he decided to just text him this morning.

And, much to Sam Wilson’s chagrin, Steve had gone for a fucking history joke as his opener.

So, it’s been six hours since he sent _did you hear what the history teacher told the student who asked what would be on the test?_ and there’s been no response. But that could be normal. Dating rituals have become even more confusing since 1942, and Steve hasn’t ever exactly been part of a real date, one that Nat didn’t set up after rolling her eyes at his protests (the ones that he always managed to get out of after begging Fury or Stark or Sam to engineer some emergency he had to leave for), or one that didn’t get postponed by him jumping on a plane and waking up to find that the person he thought would be the love of his life was at the end of hers.

Even the thought of Peggy makes something curl in his gut - is this a betrayal of her, to go on a date so soon after she died? She passed in November, and it’s mid-January - Steve’s been mourning her since 2011, specifically, mourning the loss of the life they could have had, but he didn’t, and doesn’t, love her any less than he did in 1945.

Peggy had told him, in her clear moments, to go on dates and forget about her - after all, she herself had married, six years after Steve had crashed. The one time he’d brought Nat (and Nat and Peggy were a truly terrifying combination), they’d plotted together to get the pretty nurse who worked on Peggy’s wing to go on a date with him (he’d cancelled, last second. Avengers emergency). Peggy’s blessing meant the world to Steve, but at the time - 2013 - he hadn’t been ready, at all.

Somehow, he’s ready now.

And, thinking back to yesterday, seeing Bucky (and he’d asked Steve to call him _Bucky,_ and he could tell that was something special, something rarely granted) stumble into the front office, just to smile at a poor schmuck like him, had flooded his system with warmth in a way he hadn’t felt since Agent Margaret Carter decked a mouthy soldier and knocked him on his ass.

“You there, Cap?”

Steve turns from his bunk to see Tony, already fully suited. The mask is down, but the concern in his voice is painfully evident; not for the first time, Steve wonders if Tony doesn’t hide his expressions when the mask is down, when he has less to lose by being himself.

Funny how a mask can free you.

“Uh, yeah.” Steve fidgets for a second, looking at his phone. “Just waiting for a-”

As if summoned, at that exact moment, his phone lights up with a text. Steve dives, dropping his shield on the bunk to grab it.

“Huh.” Tony’s still standing there, regarding him, and Steve throws him a look that says _go away._ “I feel like there’s an advertisement for StarkTech somewhere in there. “StarkTech. For conversations so important, it’ll make Captain America squeal like a preteen girl in a mall’.”

“That’s sexist.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tony clunks away, and Steve checks his screen finally, right as it buzzes again.

[James Barnes, 12:35 p.m.]: _He said “I fucking told you six times already, I’m not saying it again”._

Steve barks out a laugh before reading the next one.

[James Barnes, 12:36 p.m.]: _Sorry, sorry, that literally just happened to me, and I said something like that. I don’t know, what did he say?_

Grinning, he types his response: [ _The past!_ ]

The three, evil, tiny dots pop up, and Steve worries that this will be it, that Bucky’s either going to stop responding to him again, or he’s going to cancel the date because Sam Wilson was right, that was the worst opening line of all time, and -

[James Barnes, 12:37 p.m.]: _Oh my god._

[James Barnes, 12:37 p.m.]: _Something is clearly wrong with me because I just spat spinach all over the table in the teachers lounge._

[James Barnes, 12:37 p.m.]: _I got one for ya -_

The typing bubble again, but this time, Steve’s cheeks hurt from grinning so hard.

“ _We are approaching our destination,_ ” FRIDAY chimes pleasantly overhead, and Steve hugs his phone to his chest, frowning. “ _Please head to the rear of the plane._ ”

“You gonna do that thing where you jump off the back of the jet with no ‘chute?” Sam asks, walking by while slipping his goggles in place.

“No,” Steve mutters mutinously, still clutching his phone like it’s his firstborn child. “I don’t do that...anymore.”

“Right.” Sam pauses, hands on his hips, his wings securely in place. “Just the time in Transia. And Ethiopia. And Romania. And that time last week when you and Thor wanted to race to the ground.”

“I maintain that using Mjolnir was cheating.”

“Uh-huh.”

His phone buzzes again, and Steve looks at the screen quickly, not bothering to hide the smile on his face.

[James Barnes, 12:38 p.m.]: _What was the most popular dance in 1776?_

Steve squints at it, trying to think while avoiding Sam’s suspicious glare.

“Is that boy texting you?” Sam slaps Steve on the shoulder, and he hides the phone screen from him while trying to type his response. “Did he tell you cool it with the shitty jokes?”

“No.”

_[No clue]_

It was like he was waiting for Steve to say something because the response is immediate.

[James Barnes, 12:38 p.m.]: _That would be Indepen-dance!_

_[That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard, and I had a personal theme song in ‘43]_

[James Barnes, 12:39 p.m.]: _You’re assuming I don’t know every word to Star-Spangled Man with a Plan?_

“ _One minute ‘til destination._ ” FRIDAY manages to sound judgmental this time.

“Shit.” Steve types out a final message to Bucky, while Sam continues to stare at him like he’s grown a second head.

[ _If you’re the one singing it, I might not mind so much. Hey, I gotta go - Avengers thing. Have a good rest of your day. Hi to the kids]_

He tucks his phone back into his pack and walks to the top of the ramp with Sam, who’s still side-eyeing him.

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

“Did he think your joke was funny?”

“Yep, and he even sent me one back.” Steve doesn’t look over at Sam still.

“Lock that boy down, Rogers. He thinks your jokes are funny? Your jokes are _not_ funny.”

He resists the urge to stick his tongue out at Sam as they reach their mark. They both tuck communicators into their ears, and Nat comes to stand between them.

“Ready boys?”

“When am I not ready?” Steve asks with a smirk.

“Whenever a pretty person with blue eyes texts you,” Sam retorts.

That gets Nat’s attention - she whips her head around faster than an owl eyeing its dinner. “Who’s texting you that has blue eyes?”

The ramp lowers at that exact moment, and the melee below is shocking, even after a decade of being at war. Tony’s already flying around next to War Machine, and lightning illuminates the battleground every now and then as Thor sends his hammer flying.

Steve walks to the edge of the ramp and turns to smile at Nat and Sam. “They’re really more of a grey,” he says, right before launching himself backwards into the fight, dozens of feet below.

<”I don’t see a chute,> Sam immediately chides over the comms.

“Don’t need one.” Steve lands with a solid thud, absorbing the shock in his shins and only wincing slightly. He straightens up a second later to land a punch on the reptilian robot that approaches him on his left.

He chucks his shield up to grip it by the edge, slicing it sideways and taking out three in one swipe. A weave to the right lets him readjust the shield in time to shove two more out of the way, a fizz and pop suggesting that he did something to knock their wiring out while hitting them.

“These things aren’t very hearty. Aim for the chest or head.” He ducks in time to avoid a sparking baton aimed for his own head. “Where the hell did they come from?”

<“My best bet is A.I.M”> Tony soars overhead, firing off six shots in quick order, taking out a swath of the nearest reptile-robots near Steve before he heads off to where Clint and Natasha have created what Steve, for lack of a better term, can call a murder circle.

<”Are we all going to ignore the most important question of the day?”> In the distance, gunfire can be heard from where Natasha’s sitting on Clint’s shoulders - over the comms, she doesn’t even sound out of breath.

<”And what question would that be?”> Sam spirals down in time to snag two by the back and haul them away from War Machine.

<”Who has grey-blue eyes and is texting Cap?”>

Steve groans as the rest of the team immediately chimes in with noises of excitement and wonderment. “Not the time, Nat.” He kicks another robot in the chest and deflects a baton with the shield.

<”So...when is the time?”>

“Never, Barton.”

<“What’s she like, Cap?”> Tony’s in on it now, and Steve is thankful weirdly that they’re in battle because he has something to do with his hands. <“She real pretty?”>

<“According to Sam, she is.”>

<”Aw, guys, leave him alone.”> Sam again, and Steve can hear the real tone of regret in his voice. Something’s burning at the back of Steve’s neck, and it’s not the acid these robots spit out intermittently.

No, this feels a whole lot more like embarrassment and anxiety, friends he knows well at this point. It’s not that he doesn’t trust his team - it’s certainly a lot better than it was four or even two years ago - but the only people in this century who know he’s interested in men are Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes.

<”I bet she’s smart.”> That’s Scott Lang, who’d joined along last second and is popping up here and there in that disconcerting way of his; at this moment, he rips through a robot’s gooey center and stands, shaking ectoplasm off of his suit. <”Oh my God, that’s so gross.”>

<”Ten points to Lang!”> Clint shouts so loudly they can actually hear him across the battleground in addition to over the comms.

“Guys, can we not do this right now?” Steve takes out another few robots who’ve approached Scott with a look of intense interest, sharp claws clicking and calibrating eagerly as they reach out for him.

<”Yikes, I am _so_ out.”> Scott shrinks back down and disappears so quickly that Steve can barely track his micro-movement. <”But seriously, Cap would only date someone smart because he’s super smart.”>

“Well, thank you, Scott.” Steve’s mouth twitches into a real smile for a second, his stomach still roiling - but, he has nothing to hide. There’s nothing wrong with having feelings for Bucky (any lingering worry he has about moving on too soon after Peggy aside), and Tony has crashed homophobic corporations into the ground with a manic smile of glee (“No matter how good their spicy chicken sandwich is,” he’d said). His team would have his back no matter what, just like the Howlies did when they caught him kissing that private with ice-blue eyes in a foxhole in ‘43.

_Okay, so he might have a type._

<”I don’t know, he shut down that engineer I sent him last May. And he really didn’t like that astronomer. I think that one lasted fourteen minutes.”>

“Beth was lovely,” Steve snaps, running and then sliding along the ground, boot first, taking out a few hostiles on the way. “It was just a bad time.”

(To be exact, it was the anniversary of his mother’s death, but no one had asked, so he hadn’t said a word, because Captain America isn’t always supposed to put his feelings first)

<”And now’s a good time?”> Nat’s like a dog with a bone, and Steve groans through gritted teeth. He’s distracted enough to catch a baton in the side, and he grunts again, this time in pain. <”...Sorry, Cap.”>

“It’s fine.” He shakes it off, already feeling the affected ribs knitting back together. “Clint, Sam, and Scott, avoid their weapons as much as you can. Not sure you want to spend the weekend in the hospital.”

<”...Is it bad that I really want to touch one now?”>

There’s a chorus of _Clint, no!_ over the comms.

<“Clint, yes!”> \- a low curse in Russian from Nat’s end, and then - <“Oof!”>

<”Nice try, Barton.”>

<”Can we at least get a name, Cap?”> Tony lands next to him, and even through the visor, Steve can sense the shit-eating grin. <”Just a name. First name’s fine.”>

Steve clenches his jaw and watches Tony light another dozen of the hostiles.

<”Susan? Joy? Tiffany? Tiffani with an i?”>

<”Cut it out, Tony.”> Sam’s back on the comms. <”Seriously.”>

<”Monica? Wendy? What’s her name?”>

Steve knocks out the robot sneaking up on Tony’s six, and he doesn’t feel the least bit bad when he snaps. “Her name is fucking _James_.”

Dead silence meets his announcement, and Steve continues to plow through rows of acid-oozing robots because honestly it’s preferable to whatever’s about to happen on the comms. Which is:

<“Fucking James? Is that hyphenated?”>

“Fuck off, Tony,” Steve grumbles. Weirdly, he’s relieved that Tony was an ass; if he’d been kind, it would have set Steve’s teeth on edge. Tony being a snark son of a bitch is normal. Steve wants this to be normal.

The banter continues for another few minutes over whether or not Fucking-James is hyphenated or not - at one point, Thor claims he knew “a young man back in the time of your Vikings, who was known as the ‘fuck-king of Geatland” - and then it switches to teasing Clint mercilessly over letting a teenage girl who robbed him and kicked his ass squat in his apartment.

<”She needs some place to stay,”> Clint whines while sending an arrow flying through ten robots’ optical units with one shot. <”And Lucky likes her.”>

<”Sap.”>

***

[James Barnes, 12:42 p.m.]: _Oh, okay. Stay safe. Can’t have you cancelling on our date tomorrow._

[James Barnes, 7:30 p.m.]: _Fucking fuck, that was really fucking selfish, and I’m going to feel like shit if something goes wrong. Let me know if you’re okay?_

[James Barnes, 8:45 p.m.]: _Just ignore me, seriously, I’m sorry for being so...yeah. Sorry._

Steve stares at his phone in the low light of the quinjet; after the battle ended a few hours ago, he’d had to shower off a lot of weird goop from reptile-bots, and then he’d crashed the second he hit the bed. It’s nearing one a.m. in Brooklyn, and his fingers itch while he decides whether or not to text him right this second.

He wishes he’d checked his phone the second he got on the jet, but at the same time, he honestly hadn’t expected one text, let alone three. Something warm flutters in his chest: Steve’s never had someone outside the Avengers in this century, someone who gave a shit if Steve Rogers came out of a battle. Sure, the world would be sad if Captain America fell, but there’d be another to take the shield. Bucky seems to care if _Steve’s_ going to be there to take him on a date tomorrow.

Before he can think better of it, Steve snaps a picture of himself. Wanda or Clint would call it a ‘selfie,’ and he squints at it, trying to decide if it’s halfway decent. His hair’s sticking up at the cowlick, and his cheeks are pink, his eyes half-shut. But, he’s undoubtedly alive in it; after debating whether or not to nudge Sam awake on the next bunk to get his judgment (he decides not to, if only because Sam would launch him off the quinjet and into the Atlantic for waking him up for something like that), he sends it to Bucky with a quick message.

[ _Hey, Buck. Sorry for the long pause - crazy day. I can’t wait for our date tomorrow, or should I say, today.]_

He sits back, satisfied with the message (even though his damn fat fingers made him misspell Bucky’s name - but he likes the short version too, to be honest) before something nags at him, forcing him to send one more message.

[ _And don’t apologizing for caring. It’s sweet. You don’t need to worry about me, though. I’m pretty tough to break._ ]

Steve pulls his blanket up to his chest one last time and tries to get ready to sleep some more. His phone catches him by surprise though, when it vibrates thirty seconds later.

[James Barnes, 1:23 a.m.]: _I’m glad you’re okay. And if it’s alright by you, I’m going to keep worrying._

[James Barnes, 1:23 a.m.]: _And you have to remember: there’s more than one way to break, Steve. Let people worry over you every now and then._

He has nothing to say to that, not when he’s blinking away tears. An image of Bucky fussing over him - smoothing his hair out of his eyes, his fingers lingering at the nape of his neck, maybe his lips at Steve’s temple - overwhelms him. Sure, he’s not too physically beat-up from this fight, but he’s exhausted in other ways: he watched Clint take too hard of a hit, he watched as Tony’s arc reactor failed for a few seconds, causing him to plummet towards the earth, he watched Nat disappear under fifteen murderbots at once. They fought for almost eight hours, and it felt like years.

No, he’s not injured, but he’s tired, fucking tired down to his bones in a way that makes Bucky’s words hurt in a way that only the truth can.

He wishes they’d had their first date already, their first ten dates. He barely knows James Buchanan Barnes, but something that feels like home rises in his throat and threatens to choke him with the knowledge that when this quinjet lands, there’s no place he’d rather be than in Brooklyn, talking to Bucky Barnes.

But -

[ _It’s a school night, Buck. You can worry over me tonight - in the meantime, we should both get some sleep.]_

[James Barnes, 1:25 a.m.]: _Is that an order, sir?_

Steve slams his head into the side of the quinjet, if only to quell the surge in his gut. His cock twitches, half-interested, and he groans to himself quietly in a way he prays sounds more like a snore to anyone awake.

Now, a very different image is playing in his mind: Bucky, curled up under a blanket - maybe the blanket’s all rucked up from him tossing and turning, waiting sweetly by the phone - his cheeks flushed, pretty blue eyes glassy as he stares up at Steve, one hand stretched out to him, the other out of sight under the blanket.

The phone’s next to his ear within a heartbeat.

It rings once, twice, and then the warmth in Steve’s chest constricts painfully when it picks up, with a soft, “Hello?”

“It’s an order, Bucky.” Steve speaks quietly, but with the firm authority he’s always been able to muster in the battlefield, as well as the bedroom. “Get some sleep.”

“Oh, really?” It’s said with what must be a cheeky grin, and Steve smiles into the receiver, pulling his legs up towards his chest. He traces a pattern on the bedsheet, beyond thankful that Tony’s passed out in the Medbay and not anywhere near enough to overhear this. “What if I told you I couldn’t sleep?”

“And why’s that?”

“Because some jerk’s calling me on the phone, that’s why.”

Steve curls up even more, the bubble expanding inside him. “I see.” He manages to sleep a note of disapproval in there, even though he’s delighted by Bucky’s attitude. He bets his mouth looks all pouty, bottom lip stuck out just far enough for Steve to bite, or rub his thumb over. “Maybe I could help you sleep?”

He doesn’t imagine the hitch in Bucky’s breathing, and his cock twitches again. _Down, boy._ “Oh, yeah?” It’s a little breathier than before, and Steve shouldn’t find it so cute.

“Yes.” Steve stretches out now, luxuriously, and lets the groan escape his throat as he releases the tension in the lines of his body. “Maybe it’ll help when I tell you the faster you go to sleep, the faster you’ll see me for our date.”

“That’s...I don’t know if that’s how time works.” Definitely pouting, now, disappointed - and Steve is _delighted._

“Well, it’d make me feel a lot better if I knew my best fella was getting plenty of rest.” The term of endearment slips out before he can catch it, and Steve winces. He’s been accused of jumping into things too fast before, and the last thing he wants is to scare Bucky - who definitely seems more anxious and shy than most - off.

There’s some rustling on the other end, and Steve can envision the way Bucky’s sliding under his covers now, maybe nestling against his pillows. Again, fondness yawns wide and unstoppable in his chest. “It would?” He does sound shy, but not at all in a bad way. Definitely in an adorable way.

“It would.”

“Alright.” Bucky yawns softly into the phone, and it’s official, Steve needs to be next to him, right this second. “I’ll go to sleep.”

“Good choice, Buck,” he says, amused, but he _knows_ he doesn’t imagine the soft noise Bucky makes. He catalogues that information, for forever, and turns so he’s lying on his back, staring at the dark ceiling. “And goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Steve.” There’s a few, soft moments where neither one hangs up, and Steve smiles into it.

The call disconnects right as he goes to hang up, and he’s left in the dark, still smiling to himself like a fool.

But, there’s something he definitely needs to attend to, and he shoots a furtive look around the bunks before slipping out of bed and sneaking to the bathroom.

***

“Hey, Tony?” Steve catches his friend at the top of the ramp as they disembark into the hangar bay.

“Yeah, Cap?” He looks at Steve’s face for a second before sighing, his face still tinged a little grey from his arc reactor’s temporary glitch. “Look - I’m sorry I was an ass. It’s not...easy to come out, and I’d hate for you to think that changes anything, and-”

“No, no, not that - I mean, you guys would have found out eventually, right?”

Tony shrugs off-handedly. “Still. Should have been when you wanted it to be.”

“It’s - yeah, not ideal. But really, uhm.” Steve doesn’t want to ask, he really doesn’t, but Tony is _fancy_ and _smart,_ and maybe - “I was wondering - where’s a good place to take someone on a date? I was thinking Brooklyn or Manhattan?”

The way Tony’s eyes light up is downright eerie, and yes, this was a mistake.

“Oh. My. God.” Tony rubs his hands together with manic glee that’s honestly trademark Tony. “I’ve been waiting for this day for four years. What are you looking for? Class? Discretion? Quantity? Naked girls?”

“Tony.”

“Okay, maybe the last part’s a stretch, maybe for your guy at least, and-”

“ _Tony._ ”

“I’m thinking sending you to a Captain America themed restaurant would be a little inappropriate.”

“Ugh. Forget about it.” Steve stalks down the ramp, Tony hot on his heels.

“C’mon, I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I just need to-”

“I said forget about it, Tony!” Steve breaks out in a run, knowing Tony’s unable to follow him without the suit.

“Steeeeeve! Come back!”

Steve doesn’t even turn around. He’ll ask Wanda to show him that thing - Whelp? Yelp? Nelp? Whatever.

***

“Captain Rogers?”

Steve looks up from his phone, where he’s been scrolling in increasing panic through Yelp - that’s the name, and he doesn’t understand it, except for maybe that’s the noise he made when he saw how many fucking restaurants there are in Brooklyn and Manhattan - for almost forty five minutes.

It’s three in the afternoon. He has to be outside Bucky’s place in _three hours._ He’s still wearing his sweatpants. His life is over.

Pepper Potts is smiling at him in that kind “What the fuck is wrong with the people who work with me” way she has.

“Yes, Ms. Potts?” He clears his throat and stands awkwardly, knocking his stool back. “May I help you?”

“No, thank you, Captain, have a seat.” He settles back down, feeling like he’s in trouble. Pepper hands him a tablet, and he takes it gingerly (once he’d cracked one just grabbing it, and Tony had snagged the tech with an interested _ooooo_ and disappeared into his lab for an hour - Steve had been unable to break the next model, but he still doesn’t trust himself). “I have a list of restaurants for you to peruse. All very discrete, small places, with clear lines of sight, and a variety of foods that would suit any palette, diet, and allergy requirements.”

“Allergies.” Steve stares down at the tablet in shock and over at Pepper. “I forgot to ask if he had any allergies.”

“I’m sure it’s fine, Captain,” Pepper assures him, but he still wants to sink into the floor. He’d been allergic to everything under the sun before the serum, how could he be so shortsighted? Still, Pepper at least thought of it, so crisis averted. “Any one of them would be an excellent choice for a first date.”

“If you picked them, ma’am, I’m sure they’re excellent.”

“Oh, no.” Pepper’s smile grows a little more teasing. “No, Tony put this list together himself - he said to tell you he’d call ahead himself and ask for discretion and a private booth. No need to make the reservation yourself.”

“Oh.” Steve rubs his neck, his face heating. “...Thank you.”

“It’s no problem.” Pepper leans over and squeezes his hand softly. Steve feels a lump in his throat - other than Wanda, and sometimes Pietro, Pepper is the only person he knows who initiates physical contact with him. He’s the person who offers it usually, and almost always as a sign of support or camaraderie, rarely of affection.

There’s no one quite like Pepper Potts.

“We’re all hoping tonight goes well for you. You deserve something good, Captain.”

Steve nods, unable to speak for a second, and Pepper pulls her hand away smoothly, to remove a slim envelope from her briefcase.

“Also, your friend - he enjoys history?”

“Yeah, he teaches American history and art history to high schoolers,” Steve mumbles, still a little verklempt.

“I’m sure he’s wonderful.” Pepper extends the envelope across the table to him. “These are for eight o’clock tonight, but if dinner runs over, I’m sure Tony can get you tickets to another show. The writer is a big fan.”

“Thank you, Ms. Potts.” Steve hefts the envelope in his hand with a smile.

“Don’t thank me, just have fun.” She stands and smooths out her crisp suit, and Steve stands as well - a lingering habit from the 40s. “And may I make a suggestion? Wear something blue, it will bring out the color of your eyes very nicely.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”

Pepper waves goodbye over her shoulder with a light, amused laugh.

***

“Blue? She tells you to wear blue?” Wanda picks at his button down with a slight grimace. “I suppose it is...okay.”

“He looks great, Wanda, leave him be.” Pietro zips by with a pair of socks, which he lobs at Steve’s head. Steve almost misses it, barely catching the socks on reflex. “Brown shoes? Black shoes?”

“Brown shoes,” Wanda says with an impressive eye roll at the same time Steve says, “Black?”

“You don’t get to make decisions anymore,” Wanda teases before lifting her hand and calling over a pair of leather boots Steve swears he’s never seen before. “We buy these for you with Clint the other day. After he tells us you only own three pairs of shoes.” She waggles three, slender fingers at him with an accusing quirk of her lips.

“All sad, he said. Sad shoes.” Pietro’s back with a leather cuff that matches the boots. He fastens it around Steve’s wrist faster than he can blink, and his forearms are jerked upwards uncomfortably as he rapidly rolls his sleeves towards his elbow.

“What’s the function of this?” Steve asks, frowning and picking at the cuff.

“It looks nice,” Wanda insists.

“You look good, boss.” Pietro shoots him a thumbs up before checking the time. “You have forty five minutes to get to Brooklyn.” There’s a blur around him, and he’s suddenly holding Steve’s leather jacket and keys.

“Thanks?” Steve takes them from Pietro feeling only slightly perturbed.

“You are going to do very good,” Wanda says encouragingly, guiding him to the exit of his rooms with her eerie, steely strength by the upper arm. “Best date, we think.”

“Awesome! Knock ‘em dead, tiger!” Pietro has the door open, and he’s bouncing up and down eagerly.

“Who let the kid watch Jay and Silent Bob?” Sam asks, waiting out in the hallway with his arms crossed in front of his chest with an ornery grin on his handsome face. Steve snorts as JARVIS closes his doors behind him.

“Sam, you came to see me off? How flattering.” He tugs his jacket on and heads for the elevators.

“We all did!” Nat and Thor round the corner in time for Steve to hit the button for the parking deck.

“You shouldn’t have.” Steve glares at Wanda and Pietro, who don’t look at all apologetic. “Because I only remember telling two people when I was leaving for the date.”

“Steven, my good friend.” Thor clasps Steve by the shoulder, and Steve wonders what the hell’s taking JARVIS so long with the damn elevator. “I come bearing a gift for you.”

“You shouldn’t have.” Steve pushes the button with a little more urgency now. “Really.”

“Ah, but I hear it is a custom for your Midgardian dates!” He grabs Steve’s hand unexpectedly and slaps a strange pouch into his palm. Steve stares at it in confusion, not getting what it is. “I use the exact same, of course. I have noted that we are of the same size.”

Steve looks at Thor in confusion still, this time sizing him up. Thor’s roughly his size, but is broader - he’s a god, for fuck’s sake. It’s not clicking, not until Nat giggles, her normally cool mask slipping as she _giggles,_ into her hand.

He figures out what’s in the pouch, and he feels like he might faint. “Oh, shit, Thor - it’s not like that-”

“Nonsense.” Thor claps him again, and Steve debates stopping by Medical on his way to his bike. “There are twelve! Enjoy your time with the fair Fucking-James!’

“That’s not his name,” Steve protests weakly, right as the doors open with a pleasant _ding._

“Asgardian condoms, man.” Sam grins and slings an arm around Nat’s shoulders, which are shaking from barely suppressed laughter. “What a gift.”

“The kids are right there, Thor.” Steve throws Wanda and Pietro a look that begs forgiveness, and to his mortification, they’re both giggling too.

“Have fun, Steven!” Wanda flicks her wrist, and Steve stumbles back into the elevator, still clutching his ‘gift.’

“Be safe!” Pietro waves at him, and Steve buries his face in his hand before the doors slide shut to take him far, far away from this shitshow.

When the doors slide open again, Steve doesn’t pause while walking swiftly to his motorcycle; thirty seconds later, he’s roaring out of the underground parking deck, and through Manhattan towards Brooklyn and Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: after some mild ribbing from his team, Steve comes out as bisexual. They have zero problems, but Steve says it in a tense moment, so that might be uncomfortable!
> 
>  
> 
> End note end note:
> 
> A continued thank you for everyone reading this fic <3 I wanted to write all weekend but got distracted by the random foot of snow!!! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I think you can guess what happens in the next chapter, "The First Date"  
> I'm sure you can guess what they'll be doing on this date ;)
> 
> I had a burst of free time today (see: Foot of snow), so chapter 5 is already mostly written!!!! Can't wait to share it with you guys <3


	5. The First Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky go on their first date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky POV

Bucky skitters into his apartment at 5:30, with only half an hour to spare. It’s on an afterthought that he hangs up his coat and puts his shoes away carefully; what if Steve comes up to his apartment? What if Steve thinks he’s a slob?

He doesn’t have much in the way of crap (except for the six blankets and ten pillows crowding his sofa), and reasonably he knows he’s cleaner than your average bachelor, but it doesn’t stop him from scrubbing his stovetop (because what if Steve wants to cook something?), tying up the trash bag he started last night to chuck in the garbage, and swiffering his bedroom floor before setting the sprawling IKEA rug back into place. 

It’s 5:45 by the end of his panicked cleaning tornado, and Bucky washes his face and changes into the outfit he agonized over last night - tight purple skinny jeans (so, he has a nice ass - it’s like, the one thing he’s sure of these days), white shirt, and grey sweater. He hops around to get his boots on, and then he attacks his hair in the mirror, huffing to himself when the pieces curling around his ears just won’t smooth back. 

He’s debating cutting it himself, eyeing the scissors he keeps in the medicine cabinet, when he hears his buzzer.

Bucky freezes like he’s been caught doing something wrong, with his hand on the medicine cabinet and one foot off the ground, and then he checks his phone.

[Steve, 5:52 p.m.]:  _ Traffic was light today, so I’m a little early! Hope that’s okay. _

“Fuck, fuck, fuckity fucker, fucking” - Bucky tumbles out of his bathroom, looking around his small, one bedroom apartment one last time, whipping his head back and forth so much he’ll probably wake up with a sore neck tomorrow - “Fucker.”

He trips over the entrance rug to slam his hand into the buzzer, which rang about fifteen seconds ago.

“Hello?” There. He sounds human. 

“It’s Steve Rogers.”

Bucky barks out a breathless laugh before pressing the buzzer to let him in. “Come on up. Apartment 5B.”

He goes back to smoothing his hair before remembering he used the nice product, and now his hands look shiny; it’s off to the sink to clean his hands with terrifying speed, and Bucky’s drying them right when he hears a careful knock at his front door.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he whispers. He looks at the mirror in the foyer one last time on his way by. “Don’t fuck this up.” Bucky jabs a finger at his reflection before fixing a hopefully normal-looking smile to his face.

When he gets the door open (he forgets about the lock for three embarrassing seconds), Steve Rogers is standing there, looking good enough to eat ( would it be rude if he suggested that for dinner?), wearing a leather jacket and a shy smile. Bucky returns the smile, immediately relaxing in Steve’s presence, before he sees that he’s holding a small bunch of sunflowers.

“Are those-” Bucky feels slightly disoriented, like his brain finally clicked and let him realize that this is really happening.

“These are for you.” Steve offers him the flowers, and Bucky takes them with wide eyes. “I hope you like sunflowers? I realized I wasn’t sure what kind of flowers you like, so I went with the prettiest ones.” Bucky looks up from the bouquet to see Steve’s getting more shy by the second. “Because, y’know. You’re pretty. I mean - handsome. You’re handsome. Um.” He’s clearly mistaking Bucky’s silence for irritation.

“No one’s ever given me flowers before,” Bucky explains softly, and the tension in Steve’s face vanishes to be replaced with a look of unfeigned indignation.

“What kinda asshole would I be if I didn’t bring my date flowers?”

Bucky shrugs awkwardly. He’s really only sort of dated assholes. Then, he remembers his manners, as if he can feel Winifred Barnes standing behind him with a phantom glare. 

“Would you like to come in?” He shuffles out of the way, and Steve sort of ducks to get in the door -  not that he has to, but Bucky’s noticed that Steve seems to shrink down in unfamiliar situations, like he’s afraid of being his full self in them. “Thank you, by the way. These are really - thank you.”

He finds a vase somewhere above his fridge because he’s not a total bum, and he fills it up halfway while Steve stands at the edge of his kitchen. Bucky cracks open the flower food attached to the stems and dumps in the right amount, and then slips the flowers in after cutting the tips of the stems.

“For a fella who says he’s never been given flowers, you sure know what do with ‘em.” Bucky shoots Steve a look, and he looks immediately apologetic. “Sorry. I just-”

“No, no. I buy flowers at the farmer’s market sometimes. Put them in my classroom when I don’t have any students with allergies to brighten it up.” Scooting past Steve, who tries to press himself to the side as much as possible, Bucky sets the flowers in the front window of his sitting room and admires how they look for a second, his fingertips light on the smooth petals. He turns around with a full smile, a real one. “Thanks.”

Steve stares at him, and Bucky flounders for a second, feeling awkward - is there something in his teeth? His hair? Did he forget pants?

“Is something wrong?”

“What?” Steve blinks and shakes his head, bouncing on his heels with what must be unbridled energy (unbidden, an image of a golden retriever waiting to go outside comes to mind, and Bucky pushes it aside with a snort). “No! No, I was just thinkin’ you look real handsome tonight.” A big hand gestures vaguely at Bucky. “And - the flowers suit you. Bright and…”

“Pretty?” Bucky teases, going to snag his coat from the closet. 

“Mhm.” Steve sounds strangled, and Bucky rolls his eyes fondly as he buttons up his peacoat and pulls a scarf down. “You have a real nice place, Buck.”

There’s that  _ damn  _ nickname again - it had run, hot and molten, down his spine last night when Steve called him that while flirting, but now it just feels annoyingly pleasant, annoyingly like home (and Bucky has no right to think like that, because he barely knows Steve, no matter how much he knows about his life).

“Thanks, Stevie.” He grins at Steve who looks flustered at that nickname. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah.” Steve casts one last look around Bucky’s space, and it’s like watching something unfurl - he relaxes slightly, seems to get bigger, and more present, the lines of tension smoothing out in his shoulders. “Um, do you want to get dinner in Manhattan?”

Bucky nods, shyly, still staring at him, and Steve catches him this time after looking away from the portrait of Bucky’s family that he hasn’t ever been able to bring himself to take down and put in storage. “Don’t you need something warmer?” He walks forward and tugs at Steve’s jacket without thinking, and he freezes, looking up into Steve’s face, and yep, like staring at the sun. “I just meant…’cuz I can lend you something?”  _ He’s Apollo, I’m Hyacinth, this ends in disaster. _

His hand’s still on Steve’s jacket, but Steve doesn’t pull away or make any weird faces that would probably crush Bucky’s soul for the rest of time. Instead, he raises a large hand to tuck one errant strand of Bucky’s hair behind his ear. “I run pretty warm. Don’t worry about me.” His palm stays against the edge of Bucky’s jaw for a long moment, and he swallows nervously, wondering if Steve can sense his heart picking up the pace.

“I thought I told you to let me worry about you.” Bucky intended it to sound joking, to cut whatever’s coursing between them like liquid heat, but it has the opposite effect. 

Steve’s eyes darken slightly, darting to Bucky’s mouth and then back up to his eyes, his palm gentle but firm against the side of his face. Not for the first time, Bucky’s struck by how much bigger Steve is - Bucky’s tall, just about six feet, but Steve easily has four inches and seventy or eighty pounds on him - and not for the first time, Bucky thinks how small he’d feel in Steve’s arms, how protected, how Steve could curl over him, maybe call him  _ good  _ again -

(And yeah, he’d jacked off as soon as he’d hung up early this morning, he’s only human)

“We should get to dinner,” Steve says softly, not pulling away from Bucky at all. 

He nods, reluctantly, and they both blink and take a step backward. 

“Oh, shit, before I forget.” Steve clears his throat and pulls an envelope from the inside of his jacket. “Do you like the theater?”

“I had my gay awakening to Singin’ in the Rain, what do you think?”

“Gene Kelly?”

Bucky nods with a grin that wrinkles his nose, and Steve laughs brightly.

“Can’t say I blame you. That was one of the first movies I saw on my list when I got out of the ice. The guy can dance.”

“List?”

Steve shrugs sheepishly and hands Bucky the envelope. “I’ll show you later. Anyway - my friend’s friends with the guy who wrote this show? We don’t have to go, of course, I just thought it might be nice?”

Bucky slides the tickets out of the envelope and then freezes. “Are these real?”

“Yes?” Steve sounds confused, and he looks confused when Bucky stares at him in open shock. 

“How the fuck did your friend get these? When did he get these?”

“I think this morning.” Steve shrugs again, still looking utterly unaware of what he’s been toting around so fucking casually. 

“These tickets are thousands of dollars,” Bucky says weakly. He examines the seats themselves. “Oh my God, they’re in a private box.”

“Oh well, my friend is Tony Stark? So that might explain it?”

“Yeah, it might.” Bucky knows his voice cracked, but he can’t be bothered to care about it, not when he’s holding-

“So, is this a good thing? I can get tickets to a different show, I think.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Bucky flails around with the envelope, waving them around demonstrably. “You hand me tickets to  _ Hamilton,  _ and you think you can just take them away and take me to see some garbage show instead?” He bounces up and down before throwing his arms around Steve. It’s less than two seconds because 1. he’s worried about Steve not wanting to be hugged and 2. he’s worried about bending the tickets and somehow voiding them.

“Oh, it’s a good thing!” Steve’s relieved, and that just makes Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Can we get to the theater now?” Bucky goes back to examining the very real tickets. 

“I was thinking we could eat first. I have reservations for 6:45 at a little place near the theater.”

“Oh, shit, yeah, food.” Bucky walks to the door. “Do you have any idea what this musical is?”

Steve shakes his head, grinning, and follows Bucky out of the apartment. He locks up behind them and as they head down the stairs, Bucky rambles. 

“So, the creator - who’s a total genius, by the way,  _ In the Heights  _ is one of the greatest musicals of modern Broadway - read this biography about Alexander Hamilton and thought  _ huh, he’s pretty fucking cool.  _ And he  _ was  _ cool. Hamilton was always one of my favorite figures of the Revolution when I was a kid, so I was super excited when Lin Manuel Miranda got up on a stage in 2009 and did a little rap about Hamilton and how he was like, this total punkass immigrant who managed to break his way into success. And the musical, oh my gosh, the music is amazing. It caught some flak early on for not being a ‘traditional musical’ or whatever, but” - Steve holds the door open for Bucky, and he nods in thanks, still talking a mile a minute and waving his hands around - “Then it actually came to previews and people were shitting themselves over how brilliant it was. And it’s written  _ for  _ the people, not regular theater people with money, even though the tickets are so expensive now that it’s not always really available to people with no money. Also, the only white guy in it is King George, and it offers a lot of roles to actors of color. So it revisions American history through the lens of the real American Dream - y’know, people can amount to anything in this country, with the right formula of grit and determination and brains. An immigrant can shape the course of our history, and…” Bucky trails off, and his cheeks heat. “Sorry. That was…”

_ You’re a fucking nerd. _

_ No one asked for your opinion. _

_ What the fuck? _

He drops his eyes to the pavement until Steve nudges his arm. “Hey, don’t apologize.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky mumbles anyway. “I just get carried away sometimes. Silly, I know.”

“I don’t think it was silly.” Bucky looks at him out of the corner of his eye, and sees that Steve’s smiling at him like he’s done something clever. “I think it’s charming that you’re so passionate.”

“Really?” Disbelief and happiness tangle for dominance inside him, and Bucky’s unsure of the winner, but when Steve wraps an arm around Bucky’s shoulders and squeezes gently, his heart skips a beat either way. 

“Really. Tell me more at dinner?” Bucky nods, and then they stop at a massive motorcycle. Steve digs around in a pouch on the side for a helmet, which he hands to Bucky. “You’re okay with riding one of these, right?”

“As long as I don’t have to drive it,” Bucky answers. He drops the helmet over his head -  _ sorry _ ,  _ hair _ \- and Steve fusses over it for a second to make sure it fits right. Then, he swings a leg over the bike and offers a hand to Bucky. “Where’s your helmet?”

“I don’t need a helmet,” Steve mutters, and Bucky realizes that the only way to do this is to - “You’re gonna need to hang on, Buck.”

“Right.” Bucky tries not to be too pleased about having to scoot forward until he’s pressed to Steve’s back, and he wraps his arms around his middle. The guy’s back has more muscles than the entirety of Bucky’s gym, and he tries not to whimper when the bike roars to life.

“You okay back there?”

“Yep.” More than okay. Thinking about cold water and liverwurst and the old ladies at bingo night at the JCC.

Steve squeezes Bucky’s hands where they’re clasped together on his (muscular, so fucking muscular) abdomen, and then kicks the bike up, away from the curb - then they’re rushing down the street, wind roaring around them, and Bucky shivers before resting his head on Steve’s back. The guy really is hot, in more than one way, and he can’t tell if the thrum of power he senses is from the bike or Steve. 

They commit a few minor to severe traffic infractions to get to Manhattan in time, and Steve parks the bike outside a small Italian restaurant a block over from the theater district. 

Steve waits patiently as Bucky slides off the back of the motorcycle, his legs only shaking a little bit as he takes the helmet off and gives it back to Steve. “Didn’t scare you away, did I?” The grin Steve gives him is downright ornery, and Bucky huffs.

“You’re a menace, Rogers.”

“Heard that before.” He hops off with more grace than is really fair - considering Bucky had to scoot his way off and hopped around on his left foot while trying to free his other leg - and offers Bucky his arm. 

_ I’m being wooed,  _ Bucky realizes after he slips his hand into Steve’s elbow, and they walk up the stairs.  _ Steve Rogers is wooing me.  _

“You tryna get on my good side?”

“Is it working?” Steve asks. Bucky rolls his eyes and holds the door open for Steve, who smiles even broader and heads inside. The hostess doesn’t even blink when Captain America walks in and asks for a reservation under Grant Rogers.

Five minutes later, they’re seated with menus, glasses of wine, and a basket of bread between them. Steve eyes the bread hungrily, and Bucky snorts, taking one piece with a large tomato slice baked into it before tapping the basket towards his date.

“You can have all the bread, Steve.”

“Really?” Steve shifts awkwardly, his fingers tapping the top of the table. “I mean. I don’t need to. That’d be-”

“Some of us have to worry about carbs, asshole.” Bucky tears his piece into smaller pieces before dipping them into oil. “I’ll have to work this off at the gym tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’m pretty sure you need to eat five times what I do a day to survive.”

“I’m always hungry.” Steve surrenders with a groan and plunks a whole piece of bread in his mouth. Bucky watches, terribly amused, as the piece disappears in a few seconds. “Fuck. That was-”

“Impressive.”

Steve grins and grabs another piece. “But you’re right. I have to eat all the time, or I get really, really angry.”

“Hangry?” Bucky asks delightedly. “Steve Rogers gets hangry?”

“Ugh, the twins say that.” Steve makes a face and finishes his second piece of bread.

“The twins?” 

“Two kids who live at the tower. Nice kids, you’ll like ‘em.” Steve shifts, his eyes not meeting Bucky’s. “I mean...you would like them.”

Bucky stares at Steve for a long second before shaking his head in amusement. “You’re sweet.”

“I am?” Steve freezes from where he’s got his jaw half unhinged, trying to ingest another slab of bread. “Why?”

“You think I might not want to go on another date with you, or I wouldn’t want to meet your friends.”

“I don’t want to be presumptuous.” Steve sets his bread down with a thoughtful look. “I’ve been accused of...rushing into things.”

“Presume all you want.” Their waitress is walking towards them, so Bucky knows there’s a natural out to what he’s about to say. “I like you a lot, dumbass.”

He can feel Steve’s eyes on him the entire time they order - and Steve orders enough food for a family of five - and when the waitress walks away, Steve clears his throat. “That means a lot, Buck.” Bucky shrugs and goes back to tearing his bread into little pieces. “I - I like you, too. More than I -”

He doesn’t finish his thought, and Bucky writhes for a second before settling on humor, which is what he does best. “Well, we like each other. We should do something about that. Maybe go on a date?”

“Maybe.” Steve smiles though, so it’s a win. “So, I guess this is the part of the date where I ask you to tell me about yourself?”

“Not much to talk about,” he mumbles.

“That’s not true.” Steve sets his jaw stubbornly, and Bucky tries to remember everything his therapist taught him about  _ eye contact  _ and  _ breathing  _ and  _ believing decent people when they say they care about you.  _ “Here, I’ll narrow it down. Why did you become a teacher?”

The reason for that is a little too personal for a nice restaurant on a first date with the world’s first superhero, so Bucky dodges and gives the answer he put on his application. “I like to help people, and I like to think. Teenagers - people shit on them all the time, but they’re really funny, intelligent, thoughtful people who just want to talk shit through. Teaching high school was the most natural thing I could think of to apply what I learned in college in a meaningful way.” He squirms in his seat when Steve doesn’t immediately say something. “I mean, I know it’s just teaching, but-”

“Just?” Steve interrupts, sounding indignant again. “You kiddin’ me? Your kids were smart, Buck. Way more smart than I ever was. Teaching is important, and it’s amazing, really fucking incredible, that those kids have someone as smart as you in their corner.”

“Not that smart.” Bucky looks out the window and gnaws on his lip. Steve moves slowly to cover the hand Bucky has on the table with his own. 

“Yeah, you are. It’s intimidating, honestly.” Bucky looks at him with open doubt. “Seriously.”

“Steve, you’re the brightest tactical mind in modern history.”

“Aw, shucks.” Steve rolls his eyes with more than a little dismissal. “That’s nothin’. I didn’t even finish high school, Buck. Sure, I can solve puzzles and think clearly when I’m fighting, but I don’t really...know a lot of things. I like to read, but I rarely get a chance to. You could fill a library with the shit I don’t know. And you - you’re brilliant. Your thesis-”

“You found my thesis?” Bucky blinks, real, genuine surprise seizing him. For the first time in a long time, it’s the pleasant kind of surprise.

“Of course I did. Wanted to see what you said about my friends.” Steve grins at him, and Bucky nods. His hand is still on top of his, and it feels more right than he expected. “It was incredible. I had to ask JARVIS - sorry, that’s Tony’s ...robot assistant...I think - what half the words meant, but, jeez louise, you’re brilliant.”

“I can’t believe you read that.” Bucky laughs nervously. “I didn’t think anyone but my professors read that.”

“I made my friend Sam read it.” Steve beams at him. “His undergrad was in military history. He loved it, too!”

Bucky’s saved from making more of a fool out of himself by the waitress arriving with their salads, and Steve thanks her earnestly (Bucky sees her eyeing where their hands are clasped on the table, and when she’s behind Steve’s shoulder, she shoots Bucky an approving thumbs up and a  _ good work _ !). They tuck in, and Bucky can still feel his blush where it sprouted behind his ears.

Any minute now, he’ll wake up and realize that he dreamed this entire thing -

But, he didn’t.

They make it through dinner by exchanging funny stories about their best/worst times in high school - Steve honestly doesn’t believe that Bucky went cow-tipping his freshman year, and Bucky demonstrates how to best cow tip in the middle of the restaurant, fully gratified when Steve almost falls out of his chair laughing - and they walk to the theater in peaceful silence.

Up in the private booth, when the house lights go down, Steve leaves his hand flipped up on the space between them, and Bucky grins into the dark for a second before taking it. Both their hands are sweaty, so Bucky takes it as a good sign that he makes Steve nervous. 

Bucky didn’t think the evening could get any better, between dinner and Steve, but he’s at motherfucking  _ Hamilton,  _ so of course it could improve:

Act I leaves Steve bouncing in his seat and humming “Guns and Ships” happily during intermission. They both ugly-cry their way through Act II, and at the end, Steve is the first to his feet to applaud.

“That was fucking fantastic!” Steve says loudly over the roar of the crowd, loud enough that a few actors hear it and look up, nudging each other; they wave at Captain America, who puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles terrifyingly loud, and Bucky’s laughing so hard his cheeks and sides hurt.

They’re still grinning when they exit the theater ten minutes later. 

“Did you want to get a drink or something?” Steve asks shyly, and Bucky nods before yawning uncontrollably. “Oh, really?”

“Sorry.” Bucky grimaces in mortification. “Didn’t sleep well last night, and I got up at 5 to go to the gym before work.” He usually goes after work, but he had  _ better things to do  _ today. “Raincheck on that drink?”

“Of course.” They walk shoulder to shoulder down the sidewalk and around the block, once again in companionable silence. Steve sometimes shows flashes of being a silly, exuberant extrovert, but Bucky’s getting the sense that Steve is more reserved than he lets on. 

Bucky holds on tighter than before as they roar through Manhattan, down to Brooklyn, and when they turn down the familiar street, he feels actual regret that the evening is at its end. 

He hands the helmet back to Steve reluctantly and shuffles his feet while Steve clambors off the motorcycle; in a burst of bravery he wasn’t sure he was capable of anymore, Bucky takes Steve’s hand again, and their clasped hands swing between them as they head to the front of his building. 

“This was-”

“I had a-”

They speak at the same time, and they come to a stop in front of his steps with a pair of sheepish grins. “Sorry, you go,” Bucky says, tugging on Steve’s hand.

“This was incredible.” Steve shrugs and smiles at him; in the glow of the streetlight, he looks ethereal, like one of the Renaissance angels come to life. Golden light shines from his hair, not a product of the lamps at all, but of Steve Rogers, and Bucky honestly doesn’t want this night to end, no matter how tired he is. “Which makes sense because you’re incredible.”

Bucky barely manages to contain his eye roll, and goes for a shake of the head instead. “Thank you.” He smiles up at Steve, feeling something tug in his gut, something ancient and well-known, but something he hasn’t felt in a long, long time. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a date this nice before.”

“You deserve nice dates,” Steve says almost sternly, looking into his eyes with almost sternness. “Nothing but.”

“Yeah, well.” Bucky shifts on his feet carefully. “Maybe we can go on another nice date? Soon?”

The anxiety of getting those words out is worth it for the slow, syrup-sweet smile that spreads across Steve’s face like a sunrise. 

“I’d like that.” Steve ducks his head for a second, his grip slackening on Bucky’s hand. “Also-”

“Also, what?”

“Also,” he lets his breath out in one, steady sigh before meeting Bucky’s eyes again. “I’d really like to kiss you.” Steve’s eyes drop to Bucky’s mouth for a millisecond, as though he couldn’t help it. “But only if you’d like me to.”

Bucky grins, the fluttering in his chest picking up pace savagely. “I’d really like that.”

“Thank God.” Steve places his hand on the side of Bucky’s face again, his thumb stroking over the side of his cheek delicately - distantly, Bucky wonders how much Steve’s holding back right now. “Been thinkin’ about it all night.”

“That so?” Bucky tilts his face up, studying Steve’s expression, trying to memorize how good, and real, and right this feels, knowing that this will be the moment that bridges the time when he  _ hadn’t  _ kissed Steve Rogers, with the time that he  _ has  _ kissed Steve Rogers. 

“Mhm.” Steve’s impossibly close to him now, tilting his head so his nose won’t bump into Bucky’s, his eyes heated and dark. He’s moving slowly, almost too slowly for Bucky’s tastes, but he actually appreciates it; it means he has time to back out. “Been thinking about what you taste like for weeks, Buck.”

“Fuck.” Somehow his hands have curled in Steve’s shirt, but Steve doesn’t seem to mind. Their eyes meet one last time before Bucky’s flutter shut, and then Steve’s kissing him, gentle and sweet and careful.

His lips are soft, a surprising thing really, when everything else about him is so solid; Bucky notes that before he loses his train of thought completely, when Steve’s nose brushes against his cheek before he pulls away, only slightly, to readjust the angle and surge in again. Bucky’s still stupidly gripping the front of Steve’s shirt, and Steve’s still framing his jaw with his hand like Bucky’s something he wants to protect and cherish. 

The kiss deepens naturally, and Bucky isn’t sure who opens their mouth first, but it grows a little more heated at that point, Steve’s tongue running along his bottom lip, dipping in slowly, just barely, but enough to have him moan. Steve’s grip on Bucky’s waist gets a little stronger at that, pulling him in while Bucky’s hands migrate to Steve’s chest.

They break apart, Bucky panting, and Steve flushed and wild-looking. He thinks he’s going to dive back in again, but Steve runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair gently before kissing him on the nose, and then the cheek, gently enough to have Bucky shiver.

“Wow,” Bucky whispers, and Steve nods in agreement before taking a step away.

“Have a good night, Buck.” 

“You too.” He almost invites him up, because he absolutely  _ is  _ the kind of guy who has sex on the first date, but this thing between them feels too soft, too fragile for Bucky to push just yet.

“Until next time,” Steve fiddles with something in his pocket, and Bucky surges up on his toes to press a kiss into Steve’s cheek before running up his steps. He waves shyly at Steve before letting himself into the building, and Steve smiles at him before turning away towards his bike. 

“Until next time,” Bucky whispers, his fingertips against his mouth,  where he can still feel the ghost of Steve’s lips. 

He’s caught when Steve turns around, right before driving away; he grins at Bucky and waves one last time. Then, he’s driving away through the night, the receding sound of his motorcycle the only hint that any of this was real. 

Bucky stomps up the stairs, in a total daze, and lets himself into his apartment. His cheeks feel warm when he pats them, and his eyes are still wide. He sits on his couch and stares at his tv. 

“Well, I’m fucked,” he announces to no one in particular.

His phone buzzes, and Bucky looks down at it.

[Steve, 11:05 p.m.]:  _ Goodnight, Bucky. _

He types a response quickly, and sets his phone down, well aware of the smile that’s spreading across his face.

He’s so, so fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you thank you for everyone who's reading!!!! I'm so happy you all are liking this story <3 <3 <3
> 
>  
> 
> Next chapter - maybe a second date for our duo? Or will Steve's job interfere? Find out next time!! ;)


	6. The Second Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky go on an unplanned second date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for the delay in posting, I've been quite ill :(
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings for this chapter:
> 
> Bucky opens up to Steve about his dating history. Warnings for references (non graphic) to: emotional abuse (controlling behavior, stalking) and physical abuse (nothing described). Also warnings for: Bucky still blames himself for the abuse.

“At the risk of sounding pervy, can you clench? A little more?”

Steve shoots Tony a look, who shrugs apologetically behind the plexiglass partition.

“Clench _what,_ Tony?”

“Uh, you know.” Tony waves a hand in the air as his attention drifts back down to the monitor in front of him. “Everything?”

Steve rolls his eyes so hard they might just fall out this time but complies. He tenses all of his muscles, flexing ridiculously underneath the sensors and tight lycra Tony strapped him into when he walked in here half an hour ago. “Is that acceptable?”

“Yep.”

“What’s this for again?”

“If I said a “Naughty, Naked Nonagenarians for Charity” calendar, would you believe me?”

“Fuck you, Stark.”

“Strong words from Mr. July.”

Steve tries to relay _I can kill you with very minimal effort_ in a look, and even throws in a _Captain America is very disappointed in you_ head tilt - it seems to work, as Tony mumbles an apology and goes back to typing away on his projected keyboard. He swipes some file up and to the right, and then spins the display so Steve can see it.

“I’m trying to eliminate the weak points in your uniform without sacrificing your mobility. You move like a goddamned gymnast, Cap, it’s unnatural. Two hundred and fifty pounds of All-American Beef should not be so...spritely.”

Steve frowns at him thoughtfully as the scanner passes over him one last time. “Are you … are you... _body shaming_ me, Tony?”

“Oh my God.” Tony doesn’t look up from his calculations this time, but Steve doesn’t let it go.

“I’ll have you know that I only weigh 248 pounds.”

“Yeah, you’re a veritable fragile flower.”

“One that’s wilting under your judgement.” Tony snorts at that, but then signals that the scanning is done and Steve can move freely again.

He peels off the sensors with a frown of distaste, the adhesive leaving behind a strange feeling, and DUM-E crawls forward to awkwardly collect them in its claws. Tony emerges from his booth and starts to fiddle with something he’s left out on a workbench, and Steve wiggles his way out of the top of the lycra whatever-this-getup-is. He’s unsure if Tony wants him to stay or not, if he wants to just be alone with his genius thoughts, but Tony saves him the awkward question.

“So. James.”

Steve adjusts his stance awkwardly and nods. “What about him?”

Tony looks over at him briefly, peering through his tinted glasses as he begins to solder something in place on his newest contraption. “How’s that going?”

“It’s going well” - sparks start to fly out dangerously from where Tony’s applying heat - “Shouldn’t you be wearing gloves?”

“Huh? Eh, maybe.” Tony now looks at Steve steadily, not paying any mind to the molten pile of metal in front of him. “What does _well_ mean, exactly? Because _well_ for us usually means ‘no one’s tried to kidnap or kill them recently.’ And not exactly anything super positive.”

“Jesus, Tony.”

“Things weigh on a guy.” Tony hits a button and a visor appears from the edges of his glasses, blocking his face as the heat increases on whatever he’s working on. It’s silent for a few seconds as he finishes up the connection, and then he flicks the power source on his soldering iron and the visor disappears. “Look, I almost lost Pep a few years back. Damn near destroyed me.”

Steve clears his throat and walks forward to grip Tony’s shoulder; his friend doesn’t look up, just keeps staring blankly into the distance. It’s a thousand yard stare, one Steve knows well from the battlefield.

“ _We are not soldiers”_ had been one of the first things Tony Stark ever said to Steve. He wonders sometimes if Tony has realized that he was wrong. He wonders if it would be worth it to point that out. He wonders.

“Pepper pulled through, Tony. She’s stronger than all of us.”

“Don’t I know it.” Tony huffs a laugh and fiddles with another tool from his bench. “All I’m saying is: I hope your James makes you happy. And I wish you two … nothing but normal.”

“He does make me happy.” Steve shakes his head with a snort. “Stupidly happy.”

“No one said you were smart, Cap.”

“Fuck you.” They share a smile, and Steve rolls a loose bolt around on the bench, looking for something to do with his hands. “But...I mean, our first date was two days ago. I’m probably moving way too fast, but…”

“But what?” Tony gives him a weird, appraising look. “Time doesn’t seem to be too relevant where you’re concerned, Capsi-” He stops himself from saying _capsicle,_ which Steve appreciates. The name had stung for more than one reason, and Sam had encouraged Steve to just tell Tony that. And, since he had, Tony had made a conscious effort to keep the teasing to safe territories.

“No, that’s exactly it. Time doesn’t seem to mean anything. Five years ago, I was fighting in Nazi Germany. Now, I’m in the 21st century, and I’m with a guy who makes me feel like....” He trails off, unsure of whether or not Tony wants to hear him barf sunshine and rainbows all over his lab. _Probably not._ “It just feels weird. Peg is...I mean _was_ ... my soulmate, you know? It’s just...with _him_ , I feel- it feels - right. It feels right, and I don’t know what to do with that.”

There’s a long, unbroken pause, where Tony studies Steve thoughtfully, and Steve fights the urge to curl up into a too-big ball and hide under the workbench. He has a feeling DUM-E would shield him from view if he asked politely. He probably overstepped; Tony’s a good man, and a good friend, but he didn’t exactly sign up to hear all of Steve’s problems just by asking about how his dates were going.

“The way I see it” - Tony looks down to the tool in his hand, a small and complicated looking wrench that might offer him some sort of guidance - “And I’m not...an expert by any means, but...The universe forced you to live two lifetimes, Steve. Maybe it’ll let you have two soulmates?” Tony uses his wrench to pat Steve’s shoulder in a way that must be intended as comforting.

And in an odd way, it is.

***

[ **Image File** : Bucky Barnes, 1:35 p.m.] _Guess where I am?_

There’s a photo of a Manhattan street with the Avengers tower looming in the background, and Steve grins at it while munching on a protein bar.

[ _The moon?_ ]

[Bucky Barnes, 1:37 p.m.]: _Yuk, yuk, yuk, so clever, Rogers._

Steve eyes the time and his pathetic, half-eaten protein bar. [ _If you’re in the city, do you want to go get some lunch_?]

The cursed three dots appear and disappear, and then Steve huffs a sigh of relief:

[Bucky Barnes, 1:37 p.m.]: _That would be great, actually, if you aren’t busy. I’m just leaving one of my students’ concerts now._

[ _Do you want to stop by the Tower? Or I can come find you. I think I can figure it out from the photo._ ]

[Bucky Barnes, 1:38 p.m.]: _As intriguing as the idea of you doing a scavenger hunt to come find me is, I can just walk your way._

Steve pumps his fist in the air while starting to sprint to the elevators. He has to change, and _now._ “Wanda!” He shouts with a strange feeling of panic. “I need your help!”

[ _Awesome. I’ll come down and meet you when you get here._ ] He jumps in the elevator as Wanda appears, looking sleepy.

“You call for me, Steven?”

“I have a sudden date.” He bounces on the balls of his feet until the elevator sways threateningly.

< _Please cease your movement, Captain Rogers, for the safety of all_ . _ > _JARVIS chides patiently. Steve mumbles an apology as Wanda climbs in next to him.

“We must do something about your hair.” Wanda squints up at him as the doors close. “How many cowlicks do you have?” She pokes up at his head while Steve whines and his phone pings.

[Bucky Barnes, 1:40 p.m.]: _You don’t want me to meet your superhero pals?_

Steve grimaces as he types his response. [ _Trust me, it’s for your own good. They’re a little...intense._ ] And way too interested in Bucky’s existence.

Twenty minutes later, he’s downstairs, wearing an outfit Wanda begrudgingly deemed “acceptable, in a sad, hipster kind of way.” His leather jacket has made a reappearance, considering how much Bucky seemed to approve of it last time, and he’s even accepted the scarf that Wanda looped around his neck.

Now, all that’s missing is:

Bucky.

Steve’s stomach flops almost uncomfortably when Bucky appears, still fifty feet away, his hands shoved in his pockets (Doesn’t he own gloves? Steven can buy him gloves, or lend him gloves, or knit him gloves - _slow down, Captain_ ), and a hat (a beanie? Maybe?) smooshing his hair down adorably. His face lights up when he sees Steve, and then oddly enough, it shutters back down, as though Bucky wanted to retract the hopeful, sweet look on his face. Steve grins back at him forcibly enough for the both of them, hoping to get a hint of that smile again.

“Hey.” Bucky’s right next to him, and Steve wonders if his happiness at seeming him is physically palpable, if the net of warmth he’s now projecting can be felt by Bucky, whose grey-blue eyes look suddenly worried. “You okay?”

“Y-yeah.” Steve nods, trying to shove Tony’s talk about _soulmates_ far away from his mind. This is a second date. Second. Date.

(And if he’s wondering, deep down, what ring size Bucky is, well, he grew up in a different time)

“Are you hungry?” He asks stupidly because of course Bucky’s hungry, it’s lunch time, and he agreed to go get food with Steve. He’s probably hungry.

“I sure am.” Bucky looks around them nervously, and then up at the building that looms overhead. “I’m guessing it’d be a bad PR move if I kissed you right now?”

Steve snorts and leans forward, brushing his lips against Bucky’s cheek. He lets his nose drag just slightly across his sharp cheekbone as he pulls away, and takes Bucky’s hand a beat later. “Fuck ‘em.”

The sweet grin that he caught a flash of is back now - and now Bucky’s blushing, which makes the flopping in Steve’s stomach increase alarmingly. Jumping from the back of a jet with no parachute, and Steve’s steady as a rock. A knockout brunet with pretty eyes smiles at him? He’s ruined.

“That the best you got, punk?” Bucky bites his lip when he asks the question, and the thing in Steve’s stomach really starts to prepare for its Olympic bid.

He isn’t sure when _punk_ became a term of endearment, but he also knows he really likes it. “Not even close,” Steve admits, still holding onto Bucky’s hand and grinning like an utter dope. “But I’d rather keep some things private.” He leans in to whisper in Bucky’s ear. “As much as the public might want to watch.”

“Ah, well, then.” Bucky’s voice gets squeaky, which Steve finds impossibly adorable. He tugs on his hand, intending to drag him to a nice sandwich shop a few blocks over, when the doors behind them open, and an unmistakable voice booms out.

“Friend Steve! Where might you be going on this fine day of rest?” Thor strides out from the building, wearing a strangely innocuous sweatshirt over jeans. Steve can track the way his thoughts move, as his eyes go from Steve’s face to Steve’s hand, which is still holding Bucky’s. Eyes wider now, Thor rushes forward eagerly, and Steve puts his body halfway between Bucky and Thor, as though that would help. “Steve! This must be-”

“Bucky,” Steve says hastily, praying that Thor picks up on what he’s trying to say. “This is _Bucky_.”

“Ah, of course.” Thor comes screeching to a halt like a terrifyingly large puppy and holds his hand out to Bucky. “Say no more. Delighted to make your acquaintance, Fucking-Bucky.”

“Oh.” Bucky blinks politely but takes the hand, and shakes firmly. “And you must be Thor?”

“Yes, I am Thor Odinson, god of thunder!” Thor beams widely and claps Steve on the shoulder. “And where might you two be going?”

Steve is still frozen in mortification, wondering if it’s too late to sprint away down the block, maybe jump into the back of the garbage truck that’s making its way down the street.

“Lunch,” he grits out, glaring at Thor. “We - Bucky and I - are going to lunch.”

“Excellent, excellent.” Thor grins at him and winks broadly. “Worked up a healthy appetite, did you?” He turns back to Bucky and Steve flushes at the implication. “I’ve always found - and I have been alive for quite some time, mind you - that fighting and fucking can truly leave one with an empty stomach.”

“Thor.”

“Uh-huh.” Bucky nods, bright red now. “Yeah, that’s...that’s something.”

“Do you need more condoms, Steven?” Thor blinks, as though remembering some great faux pas he committed and studies Steve with a frown. “I can bring you more from Asgard.” And then it’s back to Bucky, as Thor seems determined to do what Hydra couldn’t in 1945. “Friend-Steven’s genitals are far too large to be safely encompassed by your silly Midgardian condoms. I noticed myself when we once bathed together after battle” - Steve honestly squeaks, and Bucky doesn’t look much better off in terms of embarrassment - “But I’m sure you’ve noticed for yourself by now, hmm?”

When neither Steve nor Bucky support this commentary, Thor shrugs good-naturedly. “Well, It was a pleasure to meet you, Fucking-Bucky!” With a hearty laugh and a wave of his hand, Thor trots off down the sidewalk, shouting something about _Coffee_!

“I can explain.” Steve turns massive, pleading eyes on Bucky, who’s staring after Thor as he cuts his way down the crowded pavement.

“You can, can you?” Bucky grins at him, still red in the face.

“Yes! It has nothing to do with - they don’t actually think we’re fuck - I mean, I never told them…” Bucky lifts an eyebrow, and Steve sighs. “So, they kept bugging me about the name of the gal I was seein’. And obviously, I’m not seein’ a gal, I’m seein’-” Steve gestures helplessly at Bucky, whose grin is becoming steadily evil. “Yeah. So, they were buggin’ me and buggin’ me about _what’s her name, what’s her name,_ so I said-”

“Oh, don’t worry about it.” Bucky leans into Steve’s side. “I’d much rather get food than watch you give yourself a heart attack.”

Steve wilts gratefully and then wraps an arm around Bucky’s shoulders. “Thanks.” Bucky hums as they start walking west. “You like sandwiches?”

“Love ‘em.”

And if his ears heat up at the sound of the word _love_ in Bucky’s voice, well - serum or not, Steve’s only human.

***

The small sandwich shop is empty except for them, which means no one sees Steven Grant Rogers shamelessly flirting with the most handsome man in Brooklyn or Manhattan. They bump into each other constantly as they wait for their food, producing more giggles than Steve thinks he’s made in this century or the last, and eventually settle down at a two top in the back corner, so Steve can have a clear line of sight of all the entrances and exits in the restaurant (not that he’d share with Bucky what a paranoid son of a gun he is, but, it’s something he can’t escape).

While they chat about nothing and everything, Bucky eats half a pastrami on rye and then gives the other half to Steve. He takes it with a guilty smile, regretting his decision to only order two sandwiches, and at the last second, thinks to offer the fourth of Italian he has left to his date.

“No, thanks.” Bucky waves it off with a laugh. “Can’t eat that.”

“Hm?” Steve takes a respectable chomp of the roast beef before he remembers. “Oh _shit,_ Buck, I’m sorry. Next time I’ll order something kosher so I can share.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Bucky knocks his knee against Steve’s under the table, so he figures all is forgiven. “If you feel bad though, you can give me your pickle.”

Steve’s tried not to think about it, but he can’t deny it now; the only reason Steve would ever, ever share his pickle is if he were in love.

Without any hesitation on Steve’s part, the pickle’s handed over, and Bucky takes the spear with a grin. It disappears quickly enough, and Steve realizes about ten seconds in that he’s staring hopelessly at Bucky, his chin propped on his hand. “Do I got something on my face?” Bucky pats his chin anxiously, and Steve shakes his head slowly and fondly.

“Nah. Just a whole buncha handsome.”

“What a line, Rogers.” Bucky laughs self-deprecatingly and buries his face in his soda cup, sipping for a few seconds and not looking up. Steve lets his fingers steal across the table and gathers Bucky’s hand in his own.

“You don’t believe me?” He smiles at Bucky teasingly. “You don’t believe that you’re the best lookin’ fella I’ve ever seen?”

“I believe you’re ridiculous,” Bucky mutters balling up his napkin and chucking it at Steve. His leg’s bouncing noticeably under the table, and his shoulders look a little tense now. Steve sits up straight and coughs awkwardly.

“You want to go for a walk?”

Bucky nods, looking slightly relieved, and they clean up their table before heading outside. Steve takes Bucky’s hand again, and it swings between them as they keep walking west, a little aimlessly. Steve keeps clear of the compliments for now, not liking how it had made Bucky shut down, and they keep the conversation on one thing they can agree about - baseball.

“What do you mean, _you’re a Dodgers fan_?” Bucky stares at him, horrified, as they wait for the light to change. A couple tourists walk by and stare at Steve curiously, but he glares at them with a distinctly “Don’t Fuck With Me, I’m Not Your Captain America Right Now” face, and no phones seem to slip out to take a photo of him.

“I’ve been a Dodgers fan since 1924, Buck, don’t take it so personal.” The light switches to green, and they cross towards Bryant Park, the tourists turning right and not following them. Steve checks over his shoulder just to make sure, but Bucky seems unaware of his lingering paranoia. “In my defense, they were the _Brooklyn_ Dodgers back then.”

“Buddy, they haven’t been the Brooklyn Dodgers since 1957. That was _half a century_ ago.”

“Well, you gotta forgive me there, I was sort of frozen half a century ago. Y’know, after saving the world?” Bucky sticks his tongue out at him. “And when I thawed out, I didn’t exactly approve of all the changes that had been made in my absence,” Steve says as primly as possible, hiding his shit-eating grin over using the best possible trump card.

Bucky’s quiet for a second, and Steve wonders if he’s gone too far, pointed out the differences in their lives a little too much, but then he snorts. “Nah, I’m sorry, your sob story won’t work on me, pal. The _Dodgers_?”

“Well, who do you like then?” Steve shot at him, as they meandered down the path, deeper into the park. “God, Buck - tell me it isn’t the Yankees.”

“Captain America hates the Yankees? Oof.” Bucky shakes his head and snorts another laugh. “That’s about the least American thing I ever heard.”

“Every decent American hates the Yankees,” Steve says sternly, unable to hide the smile now, the corners of his lips twitching. “But I notice you’re _dodging_ my question.”

“Fuck you.” Bucky snorts but squeezes Steve’s hand, and Steve ducks his head to laugh alongside him. “I like the Cubs, alright?”

“The _Chicago_ Cubs?” Steve pretends to drop his jaw. “You’re kiddin’ me.”

“I’m not kidding you.” His jaw tenses like he’s preparing for a fight, which just makes Steve want to tease a little more.

“How did a nice Brooklyn boy like yourself start supporting the _Cubs_?”

“My grandparents moved out to Indiana when I was a kid,” Bucky explains softly. “And I, uh, lived with ‘em for a few years when I was a teenager.” That’s all he says on the matter, but Steve can tell it’s something not to prod at.

“The Cubs,” he mutters instead. “At least my guys win things sometimes.”

“Any day now,” Bucky says serenely, unbothered by Steve’s jab (and looking honestly relieved that he didn’t push the subject). “Call me a cockeyed optimist, but they’ll win someday.”

“I know that reference!” Steve declares proudly, having watched _South Pacific_ last year with Natasha (who has a strange preference for sappy romantic movies). They round a corner to a more secluded part of the path, deeper in the trees than before, and he tugs on Bucky’s hand in his excitement. “I _know_ that one!”

“Yeah?” Bucky laughs kindly, the corners of his eyes crinkling as they sparkle up at Steve. Steve’s caught off guard for a second, his breath catching in his throat, at the sight. They’re not walking any more, just looking at each other softly as the wind catches dried leaves and sends them spiralling across the pavement around their feet.

Bucky shivers slightly in the breeze, and Steve steps forward on instinct. “Cold?”

“No.” He shakes his head and licks his bottom lip, his eyes darting to Steve’s mouth. “Not cold.”

“Damn.” Steve laughs quietly, leaning in slightly just to pull away - he delights in the way Bucky surges up on his toes, as though he were trying to follow him. “That’s a shame. I was going to warm you up.”

“I’m cold,” Bucky corrects quickly. “I’m real cold.”

“Well, then.” Steve wants to smile, but he’s almost too distracted by the way Bucky’s eyes look in the late afternoon sun. “Tell me what you think of my methods?”

He brushes his lips tentatively across Bucky’s, satisfied when the other’s eyes flutter shut, when his hands grip the front of Steve’s jacket as he tries to get closer. Steve drapes his arms around him, tugging him in until their chests collide, and they kiss in the middle of the path, easy as anything.

Steve is well aware that for all the horror of waking up seventy years in the future, this is one thing he couldn’t do in 1945. He couldn’t kiss James Barnes in a public park, in broad daylight, with no worry or concern for one of them getting hurt - that’s _one_ thing the future gives him, for all that it’s taken away.

“Good method,” Bucky breathes against his mouth when they pull away briefly. “Very good.”

“You like it?”

“I have some notes,” he says hastily, and when Steve cocks an eyebrow at him, Bucky surges back in and kisses him more forcefully than before. Steve faces a dilemma - pick his date up and wrap his legs around his waist the way he wants to, or _not_ break public decency laws. The way Bucky’s hands are pawing at the front of his shirt, the way his teeth feel as he nips playfully at Steve’s bottom lip - he’s definitely leaning towards the former.

He lets his own hands slip into the pockets of Bucky’s coat, as close as he can get to just unbuttoning the cumbersome thing and getting his hands on _Bucky,_ and it’s about to reach a point of no return (sorry, public decency), when Bucky pulls away, panting.

“Sorry.” He steps back, and Steve releases him, concern spiking in his stomach at the wild look in Bucky’s eyes. “Sorry, sorry, sorry - I shouldn’t-”

“It’s okay, Buck,” Steve says gently. “I really didn’t mind.”

“Yeah, me either.” Bucky shakes his head. “That’s not - I just - I’m not…”

He doesn’t interrupt whatever Bucky’s trying to get out, merely looks in all directions to make sure no one is watching them (which he should have checked _before_ they made out like teenagers in public) and offers a hand to Bucky. He takes it slowly, and then takes a deep breath to steady himself.

“Sorry,” he whispers towards his feet. “I just...I haven’t done anything like that-” He cuts himself off, and Steve freezes.

“You haven’t-”

“No, no, no!” Bucky looks up, alarmed. “I meant to say, I haven’t done anything...like that since...since my ex.”

His face greys somewhere in the middle of the sentence, and Steve nods slowly, trying to understand what Bucky’s saying. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I can’t.” Bucky lets out a shaky laugh, looking nervous. “Not - not right this second.”

“Okay.” Steve clears his throat and notices Bucky shivering again. He takes off the scarf Wanda had wound around his neck last second and offers it to Bucky. “Here, let’s get you something to drink. Something warm.” Bucky nods and accepts the scarf, which Steve loosely wraps around his neck.

He’s got his nose buried in the fabric as they cross the street leaving the park, and even though Steve’s worried about whatever Bucky has to say, he has to admit, he looks damn adorable.

They find a not-Starbucks place to sit down (Bucky’s only stipulation when Steve asked for a preference), and Steve orders their drinks under the name Grant _,_ remembering to ask if their cocoa is kosher. He waits at the counter for them, tossing nervous looks over his shoulder where Bucky’s sitting in an armchair, his knee bouncing again, and collects the drinks with a thanks to the barista, who looks like she definitely knows he doesn’t go by Grant.

“You don’t have to tell me, you know,” Steve says softly once Bucky’s taken his cocoa with a mumbled thanks. “Not now, or ever. You don’t … owe me an explanation.”

“I know.” Bucky shrugs miserably and sips the cocoa for a second before switching to just wrapping his hands around it. He frowns at the floor and makes a noise in the back of his throat that Steve can’t discern the meaning of. “I just...I know it’s going to be an issue when - I mean, if, we have sex, so.” Bucky winces then, setting his cocoa down and burying his face in his hands. “I can’t believe I just assumed that you’d even want to have sex with me.”

“Hang on.” Steve sets his own mug down, checks over his shoulder, and leans over to grab Bucky’s forearm gently, just enough to get him to look up. “I mean, I’m happy to listen to whatever you have to say, but I gotta let you know, Buck. Of course I want you. That’s not going to change.”

“Yeah?” Bucky nods distantly, his eyes dropping again. “Maybe wait ‘til you say that.”

“I’m here,” Steve reminds him, settling back in his chair and trying to pretend that his heart isn’t racing in his chest. “Whatever you need to say.”

“It’s that ex,” Bucky shrugs and then seems to make himself very small in his seat. “The one I told you about when we met.”

“The ex that I...dropped a building on?” Steve shifts uncomfortably in his seat, but Bucky doesn’t notice, too busy staring at his cocoa again.

“Yeah.” He nods once, and clears his throat, but his voice isn’t any less rough or quiet when he continues. “He was...it wasn’t...great.” Bucky seems to subconsciously grab his left forearm, his fingers starting to shake from tension and something else that looks a lot like grief. “It’s...it’s stupid. It’s the same story you always hear, except I think I really did know better.”

Bucky shifts once more, his eyes growing more distant, and then he lays it out, quietly, in pieces that are only interrupted when he needs to breathe, or Steve reaches out for his hand. Apparently, it was an older guy, handsome and charming and sweet, who’d noticed Bucky when he was in undergrad.

Bucky had been flattered, and while he knew some things were off - the insistence that he give up the password to his phone and computer, the strange demands to stop talking to his other male friends, the showing up at Bucky’s school just to ‘check in’ - he’d gone along with it because he’d loved him.

And then - Bucky shivers when he mentions how it suddenly became much more physical, one day when he’d joked about how he was _totally_ having an affair with his TA, of _course_ he was, how else could he have gotten an A in such a difficult class - and Steve almost dents the table when he hears that Bucky still blames himself for it.

For all his years at war, Steve likes to think that he isn’t a violent man. He always offers opponents a way out of a fight when he can, he tries to only engage in conflict with those who would harm others, and he’s weary of blood and death.

But right now, he wants to go back and drop a hundred more buildings on this asshole. Better yet, Steve wants to skip the building, use his shield, or his fist, whatever makes the fury in his blood die down a little, at the thought of some fuckin’ low life putting his hands on James Barnes in any form of violence.

Bucky’s meant to be touched with love, full stop.

“I wasn’t even myself by the end,” Bucky mutters quietly. “We broke up when he moved to DC for a job with SHIELD. He’d still call me though, let me know that he was always sort of aware of where I was in space. Super fucking creepy. Then, y’know, Project Insight happened... and I went to therapy three months later when I still couldn’t eat or sleep. I was always imagining him in the window, or around the corner. Like the coroner’s report didn’t matter.”

That seems to be the end of it, for now, and Steve nods before clasping Bucky’s hands in his entirely. “Thank you for trusting me with that,” he says gently, but careful not to let anything resembling pity enter his tone or expression. He knows all too well how fucking useless pity is. “What that monster did - it’s unacceptable. And I’m glad you got out, and you got the help you needed.” He brings their hands to his mouth so he can kiss each of Bucky’s fingertips, slowly (partly to distract himself from saying the thousand angry, furious things he wants to say because as much as that's his natural instinct, he knows that won't help Bucky in the least, and he really should think about sending a thank you note to his own therapist). He tries to express with the small, tender motions how much Bucky’s story carved him open, and Bucky nods, his throat jumping convulsively.

“Thanks for listening.”

“Of course, Buck. And anytime you want to talk about that, or anything else, even how much the Dodgers suck” - it gets a half-smile out of Bucky, which was the goal - “I’m here for you. Always.”

“Thanks.” Bucky looks strangely guilty, and Steve waits for him to say what else is on his mind. “I just … I don’t think you knew what a fuckin’ mess I was going into this, and I thought you’d need to know before...in case we…” Bucky shakes his head with a sardonic smirk, but he can’t hide the way his hands tremble in Steve.

He holds on tighter, and presses another kiss to his knuckles.

“I haven’t done anything remotely intimate or personal with another person since we broke up, and I don’t know how I’m going to react or what I’ll do when...if…”

“Buck, sweetheart.” The endearment slips out before Steve can catch it, and he doesn’t regret it, especially not at the way Bucky’s eyes soften. “Trust me. Believe me. As long as you want it too, it’s definitely, _definitely_ a ‘when’ for me.”

“Yeah?” He breathes the word, the hope in his eyes looking like it almost pains him, and it makes Steve’s heart twinge painfully, too.

“Of course.” Steve smiles as much as he can with the anger and the hurt still coiled so tight in his gut. “I’m wild about you, Buck.” The look of surprise on Bucky’s face is equal parts gratifying and heartbreaking. “And I’d like to take you on another date. Sometime soon.”

“Yeah?” Bucky smiles at him sweetly. “What are you doing for dinner?”

Steve laughs openly and stands up, offering Bucky his hand. They exit the cafe, completely oblivious to the cold and everything around them, Bucky safe under Steve’s arm, and Steve feeling ready to take on the entire world for his best guy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe these kids need some more fluff after all that?!?
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> Poor, poor Bucky. 
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> Sorry again for the week wait - I've been on doctor-mandated bed rest since Friday, and I've been sleeping most of the days away.
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> Hopefully the next update happens sooner! Your comments and support from the last few chapters have given me such inspiration and encouragement, thank you!
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> (Also: I'd like to get them in the sack sooner, rather than later, but it's tagged Medium Burn for a reason....)


	7. The Sixth Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Steve's job gets in the way of their planned date, he and Bucky find a different way to spend time together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky POV
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> Some light lovin' in this chapter, y'all!
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> Also some dark stuff - if scary stuff bothers you, stop reading after Bucky gets up to get Steve water!
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> And some fluff

Bucky tries not to glower too much at his phone, but after the news it handed him this morning, mid-second period, he can’t help it.

[Steve, 11:26 a.m.]:  _ Sorry, Buck, I have to cancel dinner for tonight. Avengers business. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.  _

He knows, reasonably, that Steve has no control over his schedule, over when he gets called away, but it still  _ sucks.  _ And he feels like a child for thinking that way.

They’ve been seeing each other for a little over a month now, and tonight would have been their sixth official date; Bucky appreciates that it’s downright surprising Steve’s job hasn’t interfered with their … relationship -  _ was that the word for it? _ \- so far. If anything, it’s  _ his  _ job that’s stopped them from going on dates more frequently. Bucky’s in his third year of teaching, which means that he’s still in the habit of getting his ass kicked, daily, by how much prep goes into his lessons, and how much time it takes to decently assess his students’ work.

Tonight would have been their sixth official date, but they’ve seen each other far more often - Steve often comes over and sits in the corner to sketch or read while Bucky contends with his massive piles of grading.

That means the following things:

Steve has  _ seen  _ Bucky’s thick, dorky glasses (and claims to love them, a sentiment that makes Bucky’s heart flutter and stomach clench).

Steve has seen Bucky angry-cry (over the news that he wouldn’t get funding for a field trip in May, to which Steve jumped up and started shouting about funding for public schools, and before Bucky could calm him down, Steve had stormed off into the hallway to make a few phone calls. Needless to say, the field trip was fully funded, by Tony Stark himself, and the school system received a hefty donation as well).

Steve has seen Bucky fall asleep at his desk (and Bucky had woken up in his bed, the covers pulled up around him, a tiny sketch of himself snoozing on top of a textbook propped up on a glass of water at his bedside).

Steve has seen Bucky eat an entire pint of ice cream for dinner (so what, he’s 25, he can still make that work).

Steve has seen a lot more of Bucky than Bucky would have preferred to have shown him at this stage in a relationship (and again, he isn’t sure if he should use that word, they haven’t had  _ that  _ talk yet, one that Bucky’s postponing in a weird combination of anxiety, self-hatred, and continued disbelief that Steve has any interest in him at all).

Steve has seen Bucky’s weird little life and hasn’t run away screaming yet, so Bucky tries to take a steadying breath and tell himself that everything’s going to be fine. Just because things ended poorly  _ last  _ time, doesn’t mean things will go poorly with Steve.

His therapist is still trying to help him rewire the parts of his brain that have come to expect the worst - ‘awfulizing’ she calls it - by reminding himself of the things that are really happening around him, the reality of his situation. It’s a tricky tether to hold - and Bucky half-hates, half-appreciates, the way Steve makes it easier to hold onto. 

Steve makes his life better, an undeniable fact that he’s mumbled aloud precisely once in therapy, right after their fourth date, where Steve had presented him with a full watercolor portrait of Bucky, surrounded by sunflowers, and called him ‘babydoll,’ an endearment that still makes heat flash up Bucky’s spine in a new, exciting, terrifying way. His therapist had been thrilled, it was obvious, but Bucky’s glad she hadn’t made a big deal out of it. It was terrifying enough to voice aloud, because the second you admitted something was important, it hurt that much more when it was taken away.

He knows that by now.

So, he’s in his sweatpants on a Friday night - something that wouldn’t have been that odd seven weeks ago - his dorky glasses firmly in place as he scrawls notes on Tom Myers’ most recent draft of his research paper. He has a stack of APUSH quizzes next to him, a pile of homework to dig through, and a solid plan for the next five hours, at the end of which, he’ll inevitably pass out, around three a.m.

In college, he would have paired this activity with an entire bottle of wine, but Bucky doesn’t like the way the alcohol makes him feel anymore, too afraid of any loss of control to give in, and he doesn’t even keep the stuff in his apartment anymore. Instead, he chugs a gallon of chocolate milk, telling himself that it’s balanced out by the run he went on after school in an attempt to clear his head from the lingering grumpiness that Steve had cancelled, and continues to make notes to student papers as Friends blares in the background.

It’s a normal Friday night, by any means, and he falls into a lull all too easily, his feet up on the coffee table so his knees are drawn up towards his chest, his back only twinging slightly from the position (he tries hard not to think about the reason why, about  _ how  _ his back was injured three years ago, but it pops up every now and then, making his skin crawl). Engrossed as he is in his work, he almost doesn’t notice his phone ringing.

When it rattles off the coaster it was resting on, Bucky looks up with a disgruntled noise. “Shit,” he mumbles wiping a hand over his face. He reaches for the phone, clicking to accept the call immediately when he sees who it’s from.

“Steve?” He asks, voice hoarse from having not spoken for a few hours. 

“Hey, Buck.” 

His feet hit the floor in a second, and Bucky adjusts to sit upright, frowning at the sound of Steve’s voice.

“Hey, yourself. How are you? What’s up?”

“I’m uh, I’m on my way back.” Steve pauses for a long second, and Bucky’s heart slams painfully against his ribcage - Steve sounds  _ broken.  _ He can’t help but notice that he didn’t answer the question of how he was doing. 

“Oh, yeah?” Bucky sets his pen down on the coffee table and pushes his glasses up and onto his head. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” There’s another, shorter pause, and then, quieter: “No. It’s not...I’m not…”

“Stevie,” Bucky licks his bottom lip, realizing how dry it is as he waits on tenterhooks for Steve to give him a straight answer. “It’s okay, y’know. To not be okay.”

“I know.” Steve’s voice breaks again, and Bucky wants to  _ die  _ before he hears that tone again. “I’m sorry to bother you, Buck, it’s just - today was -”

“How close are you?” Bucky stands up and starts pacing, too jittery to sit down. “How close are you to home?”

He can’t hear anything for a second and realizes Steve must be checking. “Less than half an hour to Manhattan,” he answers a second later. 

“Do you want me to come to you?” Bucky’s already walking to his closet, to grab his keys and jacket. “I can be there in half an hour.”

“No, no!” Steve protests, and then makes a sad noise. “I don’t want to … it’s cold outside, Buck, no need to go outside just for me.”

“Huh.” Bucky rolls his eyes, a habit that Steve teases him for - and sometimes slightly reprimands, a thought that Bucky shouldn’t find so thrilling. “What if I want to?”

“It’s okay.” Steve sighs into the phone. “Just talkin’ to you helps. Trust me.”

“Well.” Bucky traces the faux-marble of his countertops with his fingertips, his phone still propped up between his shoulder and ear. “If talkin’ helps, imagine how much better it’d be if I were there, punk.”

“Can’t fault your logic, Barnes.” 

“Nah.” Bucky shakes his head and snorts. “And if you were worried about me bein’ cold, you could always” - he shifts his hips back and forth nervously - “Warm me up?”

“Yeah?” Steve exhales softly, and Bucky shivers. “That sounds nice, too.”

“Or,” Bucky clears his throat and eyes the state of his apartment. “Or, you could come over here.”

“That would be…” Steve trails off for a second. “I don’t think I want to be in Manhattan tonight.”

“So come to Brooklyn,” Bucky says, praying it doesn’t sound too manipulative. “Come here.” Come  _ home  _ goes unspoken, but he’s sure Steve can hear it.

“I don’t want to bother you none-”

“You won’t.” Bucky snorts and eyes his sad set-up on the couch. “I’m just grading papers, watching some TV. It’s a pretty calm night here at 1917 Park Avenue.”

“Oh, is it?” Steve teases. 

“Mhm.” Bucky smiles, with the strong premonition that he’s won. “You can just sit there on the couch and watch me grade.”

“You wearin’ those glasses?” Steve asks, his voice a little lower. 

“You betcha.”

“God, Buck.” Steve’s voice is undeniably rougher now. “Fuck, you look so damn cute in those.”

“Easy, Rogers.” Bucky presses against the counter, suddenly, very inappropriately, hard from Steve’s tone. “You might make a fella think you have … intentions, talkin’ like that.”

“What if I do?” Steve says, sounding serious now. 

“Then you better make good on them,” Bucky answers, turning so his back is against the counter. “And come over here.”

“Only if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure I’m sure.” Bucky rolls his eyes again and eyes the clock. It’s just about a quarter past eleven, which means Steve will be here around midnight. He has time to clean. He’s distracted by the thought, which means he doesn’t catch himself when he says: “As if I’d want my boyfriend to be alone when he’s feelin’ down.”

There’s a massive silence, and Bucky feels like he’s been flash-frozen, shock and horror racing from his stomach to his throat.  _ I’m gonna hurl,  _ he thinks distantly, his face flushed.

“Shit,” he says, his hand to his forehead. “Shit, shit, shit  - I didn’t mean-”

“You didn’t mean?” Steve asks, sounding … disappointed? “Because you just made my day a thousand times better, Buck.”

“Yeah?” Bucky asks weakly, still cursing himself. “I really didn’t mean to put any pressure on you, and I don’t want you to think that-”

“You’re my boyfriend,” Steve sighs into the phone, and then he makes a sharp noise of irritation. Bucky can hear him shouting to someone in the background “Hey,  _ fuck off _ ! What are you, Wilson, a fifth grader? Yeah, you better run - Sorry,” he drops his voice back down to a whisper at the end. “Sorry, sweetheart, prying eyes and ears over here.”

“No worries,” Bucky shifts, his stomach still doing somersaults from Steve calling him his boyfriend.  _ God, it’s like being in middle school.  _

“Hey, I gotta go get ready for landing. I - I’ll see you soon?” It sounds like that wasn’t what Steve had wanted to say, but Bucky tells himself that he’s just projecting. 

“Yeah.” Bucky nods, knowing that Steve will be here in less than an hour, but feeling silly for how disappointed he is to have to hang up now. “See you soon.”

“Bye, Buck.”

The call ends, and Bucky’s left, staring at the wall across from him. Then, a grin stretches across his face, and he does a small dance of excitement, fully intending on using this energy to clean the dishes in the sink. 

Bucky pivots to do so, and then freezes.

For a second, it was like there was something in his window, something that looked like - 

No.

Bucky shakes himself, and the shadow’s gone, and he tells himself the anxiety crawling down his spine, threatening to choke him, is entirely of his own invention. There’s nothing there. His eyes are playing tricks on him because he’s been reading all night. That’s all.

He turns the water on in the sink, checking over his shoulder one last time. But, all he can see is the lights of the apartment complex across the street, and he shrugs, returning to his dishes with renewed vigor.

***

A few minutes past midnight, there’s a knock at Bucky’s door, and he jumps up from the couch where he’s been grading the same paper over and over again. He gives himself a once-over in the mirror, adjusting his glasses and tugging his hair into place - it’ll be long enough for a ponytail or a bun soon, and he can’t tell if that’s a bad thing or not - and then opens the door without even checking.

Steve’s there, looking strangely small in his uniform; he hadn’t even changed. 

Instead, dust and what looks like blood - Bucky isn’t sure if he should be hopeful that it isn’t  Steve’s or not - covers him almost from head to toe, and a duffel bag is slung over his shoulder.

“Sorry,” Steve whispers, his blue eyes tired, filled with unshed tears as he stares at the floor at Bucky’s feet. “Didn’t want to wait to-” He cuts himself off and shakes his head, his fingers adjusting nervously on the straps of his bag. He looks utterly exhausted, and Bucky grips one of the straps on the front of his uniform to tug him into the apartment all the way. 

“C’mere.” He closes and looks the door carefully behind him, and then steps up until he’s almost touching Steve. His hands tremble a little as he reaches up to stroke Steve’s cheekbone, studying the way a bruise there vanishes from sight even now, but it doesn’t seem to do much to take away the pain in Steve’s eyes. His beard is back, now, and as thick as it was the day they met: it scratches Bucky’s palm as he runs his thumb along Steve’s cheek. “Hey,” he whispers again, trying to meet Steve’s eyes.

Eventually, he does, and Steve looks at him, almost frightened, and Bucky takes the opportunity to step all the way in, so his chest is pressed to Steve’s. 

“Hey,” he repeats, his other hand coming up to rest against Steve’s neck. “Hey there.” He feels silly when he surges up on his toes, trying to get closer to Steve.

For his part, Steve struggles to maintain eye contact, his eyes bleary and worn down from something that lingers from the battlefield. His hands move hesitantly to rest on Bucky’s waist, but it’s a loose grip, as though he were afraid of holding any tighter.

“It’s okay,” Bucky says, unsure of what else to say, still desperately trying to maintain eye contact with Steve for more than three seconds. “You’re here, you’re okay.”

Steve opens his mouth for a second but then closes it, and his eyes, his face screwed up in some sort of pain, and Bucky surges up even more, his nose brushing against Steve’s cheekbones. “Hey,” he whispers again, and he smiles softly when Steve’s eyes open to find his.

“Hey,” Steve murmurs back, huffing a dry, humorless laugh, but a half a smile hovers around his lips all the same. 

“Can I-” Bucky brushes his nose against Steve’s cheek again, going the opposite direction, and Steve nods, slowly but with growing eagerness, tilting his head to make Bucky’s quest easier.

Their lips meet in the middle, and Bucky pours his concern for Steve into it, his hands still gentle against his face, against his neck, and Steve’s fingers flinch for a moment, as though debating to hold him with any kind of strength.

But then Steve makes a hurt noise in the back of his throat, and pulls Bucky in tightly to him, and the kiss deepens, Steve’s hands roaming up and down Bucky’s back. His chest is solid, and real, but his uniform smells like a thousand terrible things that no one should ever see, and it’s that fact that makes Bucky pull away.

“Do you want to change?” He asks, using his thumb to trace Steve’s bottom lip. Steve nods with a sigh, chasing the digit to press a kiss into the tip. “Bathroom’s down the hall, to the left,” he says, tugging on Steve’s duffel bag. “I can grab a towel for you if you want to shower. Hot water’s pretty decent.”

Four years ago, Bucky would have offered to jump in there with Steve, maybe soap his unreal back muscles up a bit, offer a little friskiness in the shower, but -

It’s not the time, and Bucky’s not the same person he was four years ago. 

“That sounds nice,” Steve whispers, eyes back on the floor. “Thanks, Buck.”

He shuffles to the bathroom, and Bucky follows to help point out how the tricky faucet works. He then flits to his linen closet, picking out his fluffiest, largest towel for his guest - his  _ boyfriend _ ! his brain unhelpfully supplies - and then returns to the bathroom with it.

Bucky knocks once, intending on leaving the towel on the sink, but when he cracks the door open, he finds the mirror full of steam, and Steve, still fully dressed, standing and staring down at the tile.

“Steve?” Bucky asks quietly. “Stevie, are you -”

His boyfriend looks up, half-startled, but his eyes still broken and distant. “Sorry, Buck, I don’t mean to waste your water.” He nods at the towel he’s left out. “Thank you.”

Still no move, though.

“Do you need help?” Bucky asks tentatively, more than worried. Steve offers him a half-smile, a little light flickering in his eyes, and Bucky snorts. “Calm down, tiger, you ain’t fuckin’ me in that shower. It’s too small.”

“You’ve thought about it, then?” Steve asks, sounding more like himself with a ghost of a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Ha, ha.” Bucky walks in and tugs at the straps at the front of Steve’s uniform. “I meant, do you need help getting undressed?”

“No.” Steve shakes his head, ears pink, and sets his jaw.  _ Right. Of course, Captain America hates asking for help. Fucking typical.  _

“Yeah, okay, I’m helping.” Bucky unbuckles a few of the straps and then curses. “What fucking purpose do these even have?”

“Still not sure,” Steve laughs, his gloved hands coming up to help Bucky. Bucky takes the chance to grab Steve’s wrist and peel the glove off, and then he takes the other, and does the same. He sets the gloves down on the sink, and wraps his fingers around Steve’s wrists once more. Slowly, giving Steve time to back away, he lifts Steve’s hands to his mouth, kissing each of his fingertips, and then his palms, and then flips them to do the same to his knuckles.

He leaves his lips there for a second, contenting himself with listening to the way Steve’s breath hitches in the silence, and then helps him tussle with the top half of his uniform. All that’s left is a tight, way too small white undershirt, stained red and brown, and Bucky’s chest hurts as he traces one of the stains, right over Steve’s left side.

“What happened?” He asks in a hushed voice, his fingers shaking as they outline the stain. 

“It’s gone now,” Steve assures him. “Fixed itself already. Won’t even scar.”

“Won’t it?” Bucky asks weakly, dragging his eyes away to look up at Steve. His blue eyes are curiously bright at the moment, and Steve looks away, his fair cheeks pink under his beard. “Just because it’s gone, doesn’t mean that it didn’t hurt, Stevie.”

“It’s fine,” Steve repeats, his voice low and hurt. Bucky nods, and then eyes Steve’s ridiculously tight pants. 

“I’m guessing you can get those off yourself?” Bucky asks, trying to work through the knot of barely contained desire and sadness inside of him. Steve snorts and nods, and Bucky steps away.

“I’ll just be out here when you’re done.” He waves at Steve awkwardly before shutting the door, and then scurries back to his spot on the couch, telling himself it would abso-fucking-lutely be wrong to jack off on the couch while his boyfriend showers a few doors over.

Fifteen minutes later, Steve emerges, and Bucky’s erection has gone down thanks to some very carefully considered thoughts of cold water and spiders. He looks up from his stack of quizzes, pen still in hand, and sees Steve in another too-tight shirt, and a pair of baggy grey sweatpants that do very little to hide how muscular his thighs are (and Bucky has a feeling if he turned around, they wouldn’t do much to hide his ass, either - as if anything could).

_ Cold water. Spiders. The ending of Ol’ Yeller.  _

Steve’s hair is spiked up adorably, and the collar of his shirt is damp, and Bucky’s heart feels a little too feeble to handle all of this input at once.

So, he pats the couch cushions next to him, and scoots down to the end to make room. To his surprise, Steve doesn’t sit next to him - no, he curls up on his side and plants his damp head right on Bucky’s lap, like some overgrown cat.

Fighting a smile, Bucky returns to the quizzes on the Industrial Revolution, and tries to make out what Rickson Alvarez was trying to say about the railroad; he absentmindedly runs his fingers through Steve’s hair as he works, and the TV drones pleasantly in the background.

“Feels nice,” Steve mumbles quietly, and Bucky hums at him in response, writing a comment of  _ if I can’t read it, I can’t grade it  _ to the quiz. 

Steve catches Bucky’s hand after a few minutes and kisses the inside of his wrist, and Bucky has to grit his teeth to focus on his quizzes. The 250 pound super soldier in his lap seems content at letting that be the extent of the contact, and returns Bucky’s hand to his hair with a wiggle of his shoulders. Snorting, Bucky returns to dragging his blunt nails along Steve’s scalp, and the hum of contentment Steve lets out is almost as distracting as how he looks in that stupid t-shirt.

Around two a.m., Bucky’s done all the grading he can do, and Ross is shouting about  _ we were on a break _ ! So, he calls it quits and sets his grading to the side. 

“Hey,” he whispers to Steve, scratching his scalp again. “You’re spending the night, right?”

“I don’t want to be a bother.” Steve sits up, his hair even more adorably mussed now, squashed from where he’s been curled up against Bucky for an hour. 

“You won’t be,” Bucky swears, reaching up to smooth some of Steve’s hair back into place. “I want you to stay. Just to sleep?”

“Just to sleep,” Steve agrees, and he stands, offering Bucky his hand. He turns the TV off and walks with Steve to the bedroom, feeling oddly domestic and not at all weirded out by it - he doesn’t think he’s ever offered the use of his bed to a guy just to sleep before, certainly not one as hot as Steve.  

But that’s not what this is about - they pull back the covers together, and Steve hovers with apparent anxiety at the edge of the bed while Bucky changes quickly out of his jeans and into his pajama pants.

When he looks up, he sees that Steve has directed his attention diligently to the opposite wall, his cheeks pink and posture stiff. Bucky would laugh, if it were funny.

“You comin’?” He asks drowsily, slipping into bed. “I can sleep on the couch, if you prefer-”

“No!” Steve shakes his head and then, as though steeling himself for a charge in battle, he squares his shoulders and dives in next to Bucky. 

Steve Rogers is  _ warm,  _ Bucky remembers, and he tries not to curl into him too much instinctively. He adjusts so he’s lying on his side, and so does Steve, and they smile at each other shyly. “Thanks for havin’ me over, Buck,” Steve murmurs, his massive hand reaching out to brush up and down Bucky’s arm. He shivers, which Steve, of course, notices.

“Of course.” He burrows his face into the pillow for a second and then sighs. “Such a hardship.”

“Is that so?” Steve teases, wiggling closer until their noses almost brush. 

“Mhm.” Bucky rubs his nose against his, chasing a daring feeling, and then they’re kissing languidly, hands roving with ease - above the waist only, Bucky notes - breath catching as mouths find sensitive skin, and Bucky gasps as Steve kisses a line down his neck, all the way to the collar of his shirt.

“You okay, babydoll?” Steve rumbles against Bucky’s collarbone, and that does it. Bucky hauls Steve up - the other man laughing at his eagerness, until he isn’t laughing - and kisses him harder. He manages to tug Steve until he’s almost lying on top of him, and with an instinctive roll of his hips, Bucky can feel Steve’s cock, hard and massive ( _ Thor was right,  _ he thinks hysterically before the pleasure reroutes his thought process abruptly), against his. 

“Fuck,” Steve moans, broken in a different way this time, against Bucky’s mouth. “Holy fuck, sweetheart.”

It’s warm and safe and pleasant under the covers, and Bucky smiles to himself before nipping Steve’s full bottom lip, his hips still rolling. “Language,” he chides him firmly. Steve pauses, and in the darkness of the room, Bucky can see his mouth hanging open.

“Oh my God, you are such a  _ punk _ ,” Steve laughs, ducking down to kiss Bucky thoroughly again, his tongue flitting inside his mouth, filthily bumping against Bucky’s. The heat in Bucky’s groin reaches terminal heights, as Steve rolls down more forcefully, one of his thighs pressed between Bucky’s legs. “But look at you,” he marvels, pulling away to watch Bucky, his eyes glittering in the dark. “So pretty, Buck.”

“Guh.” Bucky should be embarrassed of how he’s grinding against Steve’s cock, but he can’t be, not when it feels this fucking good, and judging by the way Steve groans and comes back to lick and bite at the skin under Bucky’s jaw, he’s not immune to it either.

It becomes a little bit too much, and Bucky whimpers, not entirely from pleasure - Steve immediately pulls away with an apology.

“Don’t be sorry,” Bucky sighs. “Just - I need to sleep, and I bet you do, too.”

“Maybe.” Steve collapses next to him with a huff, and Bucky sneaks a quick kiss in, one that he can feel Steve smiling through. “Sweetheart.”

“You need anything before you fall asleep?” Bucky remembers his mother’s constant lectures on being a good host. “Water, maybe?”

“Water would be nice, Buck.” Steve wraps his arms around Bucky with a huff. “But that means you have to get out of bed.”

Captain America, a cuddler. Who would have thought.

Bucky snorts and shoves his arm. “Let me up, you big lug.”

He’s released with a grumble of complaint, and Bucky stands, flinching at the feel of the cool floor on his bare feet. “Be right back,” he whispers, staring at the intoxicating sight of Steve Rogers curled around his pillow.

“You better be,” Steve mumbles, and Bucky snorts, heading away from the bed and towards the kitchen. He flips the light on in the hallway for a second before thinking better of it, the light too bright for his eyes at the moment.

He fumbles around for two glasses - from IKEA, but he doubts Steve really cares about the quality of his glassware - and then fills one, draining it quickly and flipping it upside down on the draining rack. Bucky wipes his mouth sleepily with the back of his hand, and then thinks to ask, “Stevie, do you want ice?”

“Yes please,” is the muffled response, and Bucky snorts, turning to the freezer.

His eye catches on something at the window, out on the fire escape, and the glass slips from his hand.

Bucky stumbles back with what would unkindly be described as a scream, and the glass shatters on the floor at his feet. 

A second later, the kitchen’s flooded with light, and Steve’s standing there, panting, his shield on his arm - it’s an odd contrast to his t-shirt and pajama bottoms, but Bucky can’t laugh, not when he’s hyperventilating, not when he saw - he saw -

“Bucky?” 

“No,” he shakes his head, terrified, and starts to step back.

“Bucky, no, don’t move -” 

_ Right. The glass  _ \- 

Bucky grips the counter, trying to right himself, but his heart’s chosen this second to restart, and Bucky can’t breathe, he can’t because -

“What’s wrong?” Steve’s there, eyeing the living room, moving slowly as though Bucky were a wounded animal. “What happened?” He’s wearing shoes, and Bucky focuses on that fact as Steve sweeps the glass out of the way with his covered foot. “Buck?”

“He was there,” he manages to say, his vision darkening at the corners. “He was  _ right there. _ ” He points at the window, his hand shaking. 

“Who was?” Steve asks, concern being replaced by panic in his voice. A strong hand grips Bucky’s arm. “Who?”

“He’s dead.” Bucky turns his eyes on Steve’s face, and can’t decipher his expression in his terror. “It can’t - he’s dead, he’s dead Steve, I know he’s dead-”

“Hey.” Steve wraps his arms around Bucky, half lifting him, half pushing him around the counter, away from the glass. “Bucky, it’s okay, I need you to breathe, okay?”

“He’s dead.” Bucky grips Steve’s arm tightly, half-sobbing. “Why is he here?”

He’d been wearing a hood, but it was undeniable _ \-  _ Brock Rumlow had been standing right outside his window, a ghoulish smile on his scarred face as he watched Bucky. 

Steve holds him tighter, and Bucky tries to convince himself that all he saw was a ghost. And ghosts can't hurt anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (hides because the plot is sort of starting to show itself now)


	8. February 13th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve helps Bucky in the aftermath of his upsetting night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Bucky blames himself for his mind 'playing tricks on him', which is definitely the result of the gaslighting/abuse he's experienced  
> And  
> Talks of creepy things happening at night

Steve combs anxious fingers through Bucky’s hair, and tries to hold him steady as he shakes, violently. He remembers what Bucky told him about the paranoia that followed him after the death of his abusive ex-boyfriend, and he wonders if it’s chosen this moment to rear its head.

But, Bucky looks truly terrified, not spooked or disturbed, his normally healthy complexion pale, his eyes wild as he gasps for breath. Right. First things first.

Remembering back to when he was small, Steve places a hand between Bucky’s shoulder blades, guiding him into a more appropriate seating position, their legs still somewhat tangled together. “Breathe,” Steve murmurs, heart still slamming uncomfortably in his chest, his shield lying not two feet from where they sit. “Hey, breathe with me, okay, Bucky?” He grabs one of Bucky’s hands and places it over his own chest, leaving his hand wrapped around it, his thumb stroking slowly over the back of Bucky’s hand.

His request is met with a nod, and Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, his shoulders still trembling as Steve guides him through ten deep, controlled breaths. It seems to help, getting the hyperventilation to stop, and Bucky nods again, his fingers clenching slightly in Steve’s shirt, gripping it tightly and pulling Steve a little closer.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispers, voice hoarse and raw. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Steve brushes his lips against Bucky’s hand and rubs his back in what he hopes is a soothing way. “Don’t be, okay?”

His eyes are still shut, and his lips twitch mirthlessly. “Still sorry.”

“For what?”

Bucky coughs and tries to stand; Steve goes with him, grasping him around the waist and helping him get to his feet. “I thought I saw-” Bucky gestures out the window and winces. “Sorry. It was stupid. Just...my eyes playing tricks on me, I guess.”

“Are you sure, sweetheart?” Steve frowns, but Bucky doesn’t look at him, just wraps his arms around his middle almost stubbornly. “Do you want me to check?”

“What? No, no, I’m just being ridiculous, is all. Flair for the dramatic and all that.” It’s a ghost of a smile that Bucky offers him, and it sets Steve’s teeth on edge to see him try to dismiss his own pain and fear like this.

“I’m gonna go check.” Steve can be stubborn as hell, too, and he ignores Bucky’s protests as he grabs his shield from where he’d dropped it and walks to the window.

“Steve, c’mon, it was probably just a trick of the light.” Bucky crosses the living room and tugs on his elbow. “It’s fine.”

“I’m sure it’s fine.” Steve pulls back for a second and smiles softly at Bucky. “I’m still going to check, because something bothered you, and that’s enough to make me want to check.”

Bucky opens his mouth and sighs, nodding anxiously, and Steve runs his fingers through his hair. “Your peace of mind is worth it, Buck. Don’t worry. And please, don’t think you have to apologize.” He kisses the side of Bucky’s head before flicking the window latch - oddly, when he tugs, it just groans and squeaks slightly.

Steve looks at the window in concern and then over at Bucky. “Do you...normally leave your windows unlocked?”

He’s met with a look of horror. “I - I haven’t even opened that since September. I definitely locked it.” Bucky tugs on his hair and blinks rapidly, muttering to himself. “I mean, I thought I locked it. Stupid, stupid, stu-”

“Whoa.” Steve grabs his hand and disentangles it gently from Bucky’s hair. “It can happen to anyone, sweetheart. It’s totally normal. But - you think you locked it?”

Bucky nods miserably, and Steve eyes the window dubiously. “I could have sworn I locked it.”

“Hmm.” Steve unlocks it successfully this time and then lifts it enough that he can pop out onto the fire escape. It takes him a second, having to fold his ridiculously long legs up his chest to scoot through - for a wild moment, he misses being a foot shorter, when he could wiggle into small spaces with no stress, but he banishes the thought. If he were small, he couldn’t protect Bucky. He couldn’t protect anyone. _What would he have to offer him?_

He hugs the shield close to his chest, eyeing the fire escape above him and below him warily. Climbing up the rickety metal ladder to the next floor, he can see that Bucky’s upstairs neighbor is home, and watching television. He clambers back down and squints at the level below, and then cranes his neck over the side, studying the four levels of fire escape under his feet.

Finally, he lifts his head and studies the rooftops surrounding Bucky’s building. Starting at the west corner of the building at the end of the street, he drags his gaze across the rooftops, towards the eastern side - and then his eyes flick back on reflex, back to the middle of the building right across from Bucky’s. A figure stands there, and then vanishes from sight.

Raising his shield, he looks closer, his eyes already adjusted to the darkness - it could have been anyone out and about on the roof of their building (not that odd, when you consider potential stargazers or lovers trying to get out of their building for a moment), but something cold trickles down his spine.

Steve climbs back through Bucky’s window to find his boyfriend (and _God,_ hadn’t that been a thrill to hear Bucky say, not even four hours ago) sweeping up the glass in the kitchen as though to sit by and wait had been physically impossible for him. “I woulda gotten that, Buck,” Steve says softly, closing the window behind him and locking it firmly. He pulls the blinds for good measure, and then makes sure the neighboring window is also locked, the blinds closed.

“No reason for you to.” Bucky stands up and dumps the glass into his trash bag before turning to half-smile at Steve. The smile looks painful, which makes Steve frown. “Let me guess, it was nothin’?”

 _No,_ Steve wants to say. _Somethin’._

Instead, he shrugs. “Would you feel better if we slept at mine?” He suggests, his shield still tucked into his side. _I certainly would._

Bucky blushes and shakes his head. “No need to go hauling back to Manhattan in the middle of the night because I got scared.”

“Not the Tower.” Although, it’s tempting with its intense security and Steve’s sudden fear that this isn’t the first time Bucky’s been scared like this. If his ex-boyfriend was on the wrong side at Project Insight, that meant his ex was Hydra - it sets Steve’s teeth on edge to know that someone as good as Bucky could have been hurt so badly by those Nazi fucks. “I got an apartment here, remember?”

He walks forward when it’s clear Bucky’s frozen, contemplating this, and he reaches his arms out; Bucky steps into them immediately, ducking his head down so it fits under Steve’s chin. He can feel that Bucky’s still shaking a little, can hear that his heart rate is still elevated, and can sense the anxiety vibrating off of him at a high frequency.

“I don’t want to be a bother,” Bucky whispers into Steve’s shirt, his arms almost terrifyingly tight around his middle.

He doesn’t fight with him, but he does fight dirty - “Let me take you home, Buck.”

He wins, of course. Bucky pulls away with a somber nod, and Steve smiles at him. “We can make a weekend out of it,” he suggests lightly, the wheels in his head spinning furiously. “Or didya think I’d forgotten that Sunday is Valentine’s Day?”

“Oh, fuck!” Bucky stares at him with wide eyes, worried for a different reason now, and Steve laughs, honestly laughs. It cuts the tension, and Bucky cracks a grin at his own expense. “Oh, shit, I actually did forget.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Steve pivots him gently towards the bedroom and nudges him forward. “I didn’t plan nothin’ special.”

“You say that,” Bucky grumbles, walking away. “But why do I have the feeling that I’m waking up to an ice sculpture of my face on Sunday?”

“C’mon, Buck, give a guy some credit,” Steve calls out after him, sweeping up the rest of the glass Bucky missed. “It’s of your ass.”

“Fuck you, Rogers.”

Steve laughs again, relieved that Bucky sounds more like himself, but then he frowns in thought, eyeing the living room windows. “Go ahead and pack whatever you need,” he says, oddly needing to hear Bucky, to confirm that he’s in the next room. He’s had the serum for about six years now, so he can tell when his gut instinct is warning him of some impending doom accurately - and strangely enough, in the quiet comfort of Bucky’s apartment, that’s exactly what this feels like. “If you forget somethin’, we can always come back.”

“Yeah, yeah.” There’s a thumping noise, and the sound of Bucky cursing - Steve grins, realizing that Bucky failed in a tussle with his luggage. “What the fuck.”

“You okay in there?”

“I’m fine,” Bucky grumbles, and he hears another prolonged sigh - Steve ducks his head and grins. Bucky must be forgetting that Steve’s hearing is a little better than most people’s. “ _What says ‘I’m desperate for your dick but not desperate in general_?” Bucky whispers, and Steve feels his ears heat up as he grins even harder.

It takes every ounce of self control he has to push down on his instinct to be a smart-ass and answer. Bucky’s had enough struggle tonight. No need for Steve to heap onto that. No matter how tempting it is to suggest Bucky wear that red henley shirt Steve is so fond of.

Bucky comes out a few minutes later with his backpack on, and he hands Steve his duffel bag as well. Next, he goes to the closet and pulls out his coat, slipping his arms through the sleeves before wrapping a scarf around his neck.

“I really am sorry,” he mutters as he buttons up his coat.

“What for?”

“For all this” - he gestures vaguely around in the air with his left hand - “Drama. You don’t need it, you had a shit day, and I’m just adding onto it, which is just typical of me, and-”

“Hey.” Steve reaches out to tug on the front of Bucky’s coat. “That’s my boyfriend you’re talkin’ about, pal.”

It gets a blush, and Steve smiles at the way Bucky’s ears turn pink, just visible through his thick, wavy hair. “Is that so?”

“It is.” Steve hums thoughtfully and tugs the collar of Bucky’s coat up. “And I’d really like to kiss him.”

“Huh.” Bucky squirms a little when Steve levels his gaze onto him a little more intensely, but he can’t hide the small smile that quirks his lips up. “He wouldn’t be opposed.”

“Oh, good.” He leans forward with a smirk and presses his mouth to Bucky’s with featherlight pressure, a soft kiss, simple and pure and Steve hopes it even gets halfway to saying _I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere._ It takes everything he has not to say _I love you,_ because as much as he does, he doesn’t want to do anything close to adding to Bucky’s emotional baggage at the moment.

Having Steven Rogers be in love with you isn’t always the recipe for a good life, he’s come to find.

They head out onto the street a few minutes later, after Bucky’s securely locked the door behind them, and Steve’s shouldered his duffel bag, the shield slung on the outside of it so it taps lightly against his back with every step. He drapes his arm over Bucky’s shoulders as they walk, partly to offer him warmth, mostly to offer him comfort, and they don’t say much into the crisp, cold, mid-February night.

“You weren’t kiddin’,” Bucky mutters after a few minutes.

“Hm?” Steve looks back from where he’d been surreptitiously eyeing the rooftops above them.

“You really do run warm,” Bucky explains with a smile, nestling into his side a little more, and Steve smiles back. He tries not to let his eyes drift to the rooftops again, as it’s only a twenty minute walk to his apartment. The motorcycle and its accompanying racket didn’t seem like the best option for Bucky’s current state, so they’re hoofin’ it. Steve’ll just come back in the morning after his run, he reasons, no need to stir up any commotion in the quiet of Bucky’s neighborhood, not when Bucky needs time to settle himself.

“Maybe I’m just hot for teacher,” Steve teases, and it earns him a finger in his side.

“Gross.”

Steve giggles in response to the finger and Bucky’s scolding, which earns him a grin from his boyfriend. “I’m sorry, are you - are you _ticklish_?”

“No,” Steve lies, and Bucky in no way believes him; instead he grins evilly.

“Watch your back Rogers. Now that I know _this_ about you, it’s game over.”

“So kind to me.” When they reach a street corner and wait for the light to change, Steve pretends to pout, and it gets Bucky to stand on his tiptoes and brush his lips over his cheek.

“Sorry,” he whispers, pulling away and looking anything but, his lip between his teeth, wide grey-blue eyes looking appropriately plaintive.

“Forgiven.” Steve takes a deep breath and then walks forward without waiting for the light to change.

“Steve! It’s not time for us to cross yet!” Bucky chides him, but Steve shakes his head and keeps walking, tugging on Bucky’s hand.

“I wanna get you home.” Steve pivots in the middle of the crosswalk, their hands suspended between them. “Now.”

“Is that so?” In the light from the nearby street lamp, Bucky’s pretty enough to force the air from Steve’s lungs, knocking the wind from him for the time being. All he can manage to do is swallow and nod, tugging on Bucky again, trying to telegraph with his eyes how badly he wants to be alone with him.

Given that it’s after midnight, there aren’t many people out, and there doesn’t seem to be any on this particular intersection. There certainly aren’t any cars approaching, so the second Bucky steps closer, Steve steps in as well and frames his face with his hands, ducking down for a slow, steady kiss in the middle of the crosswalk.

“Wow.” Bucky pulls away, looking slightly dazed. “How far away is your place?”

“Five minutes?”

“Let’s go.” Now, Bucky’s in the lead, and he pulls Steve along enough to the point where Steve has to jog for a second to catch up. They’re both laughing as they hurry down the sidewalk, oblivious to anything that isn’t them.

For a second, Steve can forget to be worried about the night and whatever’s hiding in it.

***

Bucky’s fast asleep about five minutes after his head hits the pillow, and Steve can’t really blame him.

When they’d walked in, Bucky had immediately been caught off-guard by the extension of JARVIS that runs through Steve’s apartment; but, the multiple locks on Steve’s door seemed to put him at ease, and when Steve casually pointed out the invisible sensors that run along each window and entrance to the place, Bucky relaxed entirely.

He’d curled up on the right side of the bed - his side, Steve realized, judging by the way the pillows were heaped up back at his place - and fallen asleep with Steve’s arm draped over his waist. They’d traded some lazy kisses, Steve feeling a little eager to continue what they’d started outside, but Bucky had accidentally yawned in his face mid-kiss, which had quickly put a stop to things.

So, Steve does something that he just knows Sam would mock him for: he watches Bucky sleep, his face somewhat lit by the city lights streaming through Steve’s bedroom window (“ _I thought I told you Twilight was a cautionary tale, man,_ ” he can almost hear Sam say).

But it’s the way Bucky’s face is crossed even in sleep that has Steve studying it; Bucky’s young - more than five years younger than Steve biologically, but over seventy years chronologically - but there are worry lines in his forehead and at his eyes. His breathing is even now that he’s asleep, but a worrisome tension still seems to exist in his face. Again, Steve remembers how Bucky had confided in him that for months after Project Insight, he was sure he saw someone watching him, and after tonight, Steve isn’t so sure Bucky’s mind was playing tricks on him.

He doesn’t want to believe it’s Bucky’s ex, as dropping a building on someone seems like a pretty decent way to make sure they’re dead (although, Steve knows from experience, things that _should_ kill people don’t always kill them, not icebergs or frozen water, so maybe not buildings, either), but it doesn’t mean he can shake the feeling that someone might have been there, watching him. Hydra is insidious, and if Bucky popped up on their radar, then…

After Bucky’s been asleep for half an hour, Steve reluctantly pulls away from him and gets out of bed. He walks to the bathroom and flicks the light on, and closes the door while still in the hallway. Hanging out with Natasha might have made him overly cautious, but he’s hoping that if Bucky wakes up in his absence, he’ll see the light and assume he’s in the bathroom. Then, he goes to his living room, and takes out his StarkTech phone from his pocket.

“JARIVS?”

<“ _Yes, Captain Rogers_.”>

“Please let me know if my guest wakes up.”

<“ _Of course, sir._ ”>

He dials a number and prays that he isn’t wrongfully assuming that the person on the other end is still going to be awake past two a.m.

It picks up after the fourth ring: basically, he wasn’t wrong.

“You better not be dying, Cap.”

There’s a sound of a drilling going in the background, and despite his somber mood, Steve smirks. “Just dying to speak to you, Tony.”

“Ha.” Tony groans, and the drill shuts off. “I would say that’s a dad joke, but it’s honestly more of a grandad joke, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I am very old.” Steve rolls his eyes. “Isn’t it past your bedtime young man?”

“Now you sound like Pep.” The drill starts again, and Steve waits for a few seconds before speaking again.

“Look, Tony, I need to talk to you about something serious.”

“Oh?” The tone shifts immediately, and the drill shuts off again. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” Steve rubs the back of his neck. “I mean, maybe not. I think...do you remember James?”

“Fucking-”

“Don’t say it.”

“Ah, sorry, force of habit.” Tony sounds decently chagrined, so Steve keeps going.

“Remember how I turned down the detail on him?”

“You were pretty adamant, as I recall.”

In reality, Steve had grabbed the SHIELD agent who suggested it and hauled them in, shouting that Bucky would be followed, bothered, and/or harassed over his dead body and “ _are you going to be the one to take the shot, Agent_?”

“Yeah. About that.” Steve clears his throat and eyes the door, but JARVIS hasn’t alerted him of Bucky waking up, so he shakes his head and grits his teeth to ask him. “I’m assuming you went ahead and set up some sort of surveillance anyway.”

“Uhhh…” Tony doesn’t cop to anything, so Steve rolls his eyes.

“I wouldn’t be mad.” Steve studies the blank wall of his apartment; all the walls are blank, which makes him suddenly feel very lonely. He keeps planning on drawing something or buying something to fill the space, but he has yet to find the time, or the energy to do so. “There’s something I’d want you to look at.”

“Hypothetically, if I _had_ set up some sort of system where the street cams pointed at, oh, say, hypothetically a certain history teacher’s apartment on Park Avenue in Brooklyn, what time would you need me to review?” Tony coughs. “Hypothetically.”

“Of course.” Steve snorts and shakes his head. “The last two hours?”

“So, footage on James Barnes’ apartment from the last two hours.” Tony hums to himself, and Steve waits on the other end of the call, his leg bouncing slightly from the energy that still hasn’t gone down in the wake of Bucky’s panic.. “Damnit Steve, you didn’t even change before you went over there?”

“I was impatient to see him,” he mumbles, cheeks heating up.

“That’s cute, Cap, it really is, but you have to remember. Walking around Brooklyn in the middle of the night with the big ol’ stars and stripes on your patriotic chest? Sort of like being a walking target.”

“I can take care of myself, thanks, Tony.”

“I wasn’t implying the target would be on you, Steve.” It’s the use of his name that startles him at first, and then what Tony says. _Isn’t the whole point of this phone call that you’re worried about Bucky?_ “Just...something to think about.”

“I will, yeah.”

Steve recalls the Malibu house that was attacked a few years back, the address that Tony had given out so flippantly on national television, almost leading to Pepper’s death. Luckily, Pepper had never been very good at playing damsel in distress, and the rest of the Avengers had caught wind of the situation and had immediately gone to help out. Still, it had been a terrifying day that haunts Tony well into the present.

“I’m going through frame by frame, and I’m having JARVIS help,” Tony reports. “But you should know: I have a system set up to detect crime on the block and the areas surrounding it. Basically half of Brooklyn, between his corner and yours.”

“That’s...good to know?” Steve squints and sighs, walking to the fridge in his massive, basically unused kitchen to grab a water.

“Is there anything I’m looking for in particular?”

“A man.” Steve taps his fingers on the counter, and remembers that he doesn’t really know anything about Bucky’s boyfriend, not what he looks like other than handsome, and not even his name. “Tall? Maybe?” It’s a guess, but maybe Bucky has a type.

“A maybe-tall man.” Tony snorts. “I need to spot a maybe-tall man in Brooklyn. You must know I get the sleepies around 2:30 a.m., and you want to challenge me so I stay awake. How thoughtful of you.”

“That was the plan.”

He rolls his eyes a second later because it was absolutely the wrong phrase to say - Tony immediately starts humming “Star Spangled Man With a Plan.” Steve sips his water absentmindedly, waiting for any kind of news.

“Tony-”

“Hang on.” Tony’s voice changes, becomes slower. Steve can envision him tilting forward in his ridiculous desk chair. “Ha-aaang on.”

“What is it?” Steve eyes the clock, wonders if he can get to Manhattan in ten minutes and shake it out of him, and drains his water.  

“There’s definitely a man.” Tony doesn’t speak for a few seconds, but Steve hears him swear under his breath, violently.

“What?”

“Please tell me your sweet cherub of a boyfriend doesn’t live on the fifth floor of his building.”

Steve tenses. “He does. 5B.”

“Well, I don’t know how to say this, but we got a tall, dark, and creepy looking into a fifth story window about an hour ago.” Tony whistles under his breath. “Holy shit, where did this guy come from?”

The water bottle in his hand crumples, and Steve has to throw it away from himself so he can grip the sturdy marble countertop instead. It clatters against the floor after hitting the wall. “What do you mean, _where_ _did he come from_?”

“I mean, he melted out of a shadow like a goddamn ghost, stood in front of a window on the fifth floor for five minutes, and then disappeared again, the second the light turned on.”

“That isn’t possible.” Steve hangs his head, feeling the tension between his shoulder blades as he squeezes his eyes shut. “It’s not-”

“I’m sorry, but it’s what I see. I even flipped the camera angle to the one across the street - same deal. One minute, we have an empty fire escape, next minute, creepy guy staring in window. Fast forward five minutes, he’s gone again. Like, he jumps off the fire escape, and then - yeah. No idea where he goes.”

“Is there a way to find out?” Steve bangs his fist into the counter and grimaces. “Please tell me there’s a way you can find out.”

“I can definitely try.” Tony sounds as baffled as Steve feels. “What the hell?”

“You can say that again.” Steve shakes his head. “Anything after that?”

“You pop out onto the fire escape two minutes later, no sign of activity under the fire escape or on the street.”

“Anything on the roof?” Steve taps his fingers anxiously on the countertop. “I coulda swore I saw something - across the street? Can you get that angle?”

“If I commit a light felony, sure.”

Steve wipes a hand over his eyes. “You don’t have to-”

“Yep, there we go.” It manages to get a wry smile out of Steve even in the anxiety that’s surged over him. “Fucker!”

“He’s there again?”

“Goddamnit, what is this guy? Some kind of ninja?”

“I think he’s Hydra,” Steve whispers, his stomach clenching uncomfortably.

Steve can count seven heartbeats before Tony responds.

“ _Hydra_? Didn’t you, you know, bury those guys at the bottom of the Potomac River?”

“If you cut off a head-”

“Two more will take its place,” Tony finishes, more somber than Steve’s heard him in a long time. “Christ, my dad used to say that all the time. It was creepy as shit then when it was just a distant memory.”

“Yeah, well.” Steve shakes his head, his throat dry, eyes aching from sudden tears that need to be shed. “Not really that distant for some of us.”

“Shit.” Tony coughs weakly. “What makes you think that guy is Hydra, Cap?”

“I’ll tell you later.” Steve eyes the window. “This is going to sound paranoid, but can you-”

“Increase the security measures on your place? You got it.”

“Thanks, Tony.” Steve grabs two more bottles of water and cracks one open, the other tucked under his arm. “I really appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it. Stay safe. You and that mysterious James of yours.”

“Maybe I’ll introduce you all soon.”

“Oh, that’d be great, Pep is getting tired of double dating with Barton and Natasha. Something about how the pair of them are murder hobos.”

“Pepper Potts did not call _anyone_ a murder hobo. She would never,” Steve says indignantly.

“Yeah, you’re right, that was me.” Tony laughs, and Steve makes himself laugh along with him.

“Thanks again, Tony.”

“Sleep tight, Cap. Or. You know. Just sleep.”

“Same to you.” Steve rolls his eyes and hangs up the phone. He’s silent for a long minute, his back to the counter, as he studies the blank walls once more. “JARVIS?”

<“ _Y_ _es sir_.”>

“Is he still asleep?”

<“ _J_ _ames Barnes' vitals indicate that he was asleep for the duration of your call, sir._ ”>

“Thanks.” Steve drains the second water and walks to the bedroom, shutting off the lights in the bathroom after looking at himself in the mirror.

He doesn’t want to believe that Hydra’s interest in James Buchanan Barnes has anything to do with him - after all, if the timeline makes any sense, James and his ex dated after Steve woke up, but his ex was _dead_ long before Steve met James - dead for over a year, even.

But, Steve’s got a century of experience in blaming himself for when things go wrong, so he sticks with what he knows as he climbs into bed next to Bucky once more. He carefully drapes an arm over Bucky’s waist again, slightly stirring him as he settles back down.

“Mmph - Steve?” Bucky makes a small noise as he half-wakes, and blearily blinks at him. “Wa’swrong?”

“Nothing, babydoll.” Steve kisses his forehead and strokes his hair back into place from where it’s been mussed by the pillow. “Talk to you in the morning. Go back to sleep, okay?”

“Yeah, Stevie.” Bucky twists under the covers until his back is to Steve’s chest, and burrows backwards with a small, happy sound.

Steve smiles genuinely and presses his lips to the back of Bucky’s head, inhaling the sleep-warm scent of him, holding him a little closer, a little more selfishly. His own eyes drift shut despite his lingering anxiety, coaxed into peace by Bucky’s proximity, by the constant reassurance of Bucky’s heartbeat under his hand.

“Goodnight, Buck.”

“G’night.” Bucky wiggles backwards a little more, and Steve’s heart skips a beat from sheer happiness. And then: “Love you.”

“Buck?” He’s asleep, though, and now Steve’s wide awake, a dopey grin stretching from ear to ear. Eventually, he drops a kiss over Bucky’s ear and drops his head to the pillows, head reeling from the last few hours - he knows he won't fall asleep for a while, but at least now the thoughts that race around his head tilt towards something a little more pleasant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: 
> 
>  
> 
> Valentine's Day!
> 
>  
> 
> Maybe it will be all fluff??? Maybe??????


	9. February 14th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky spend February 14, 2016 together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff fluff fluff 
> 
> (to make up for all the angst)
> 
> Bucky POV

Bucky wakes up around six a.m. - _honestly, that’s pretty good for a Sunday, where’s his damn medal?_ \- and is unsurprised to discover the spot next to him empty.

Yesterday, when they’d woken up, Bucky had been wrapped in Steve’s arms (and wasn’t _that_ a way to wake up, and Bucky would like to do it often, or always), and they’d lain there for a while until Steve had cleared his throat and offered to make them breakfast. He’d known then, that something was wrong, that something had been wrong back at his apartment. But, Steve had taken his hand, and made him coffee and eggs, and was still holding his hand when he quietly told him what Tony had found.

Bucky’s a little ashamed to admit that he cried when Steve told him - and he doesn’t know what’s worse: that he cried because he was so afraid, or that he cried because he was partly relieved that his brain hadn’t conjured up the phantom of Brock Rumlow, that it wasn’t a sign of his mind playing tricks, of losing control.

But, he knows the bed next to him isn’t empty because of Steve judging him or finding him wanting. Steve had held him while he cried, kissing his hair softly, and his hands, and his forehead, and he’d held him afterwards to. They’d spent a quiet day on the couch, right up until Steve’s leg started bouncing so hard Bucky was convinced he’d kick his way into the downstairs apartment. He’d skipped his morning run (a big no-no for supersoldiers, unsurprisingly), mainly because Bucky had been a wreck and kept him up until almost sunrise, and then Bucky had needed coddling after breakfast. He’s inconvenienced Steve enough, and the only thing that really surprises Bucky is that Steve hasn’t politely asked him to leave.

Although, now that Steve knows someone connected to Hydra is interested in Bucky, Bucky doubts the highly noble and highly dedicated-to-killing-Nazis Steve Rogers is going to be able to kick Bucky fully to the curb. So, Steve had sleepily asked Bucky to stay the night again, wrapped his arms around him, and had fallen asleep with his soft breath blowing across Bucky’s neck (and all Bucky could think was _does he really want this, or does he just feel obligated to save me_?)

It’s a real damn fuck-up of a situation, is what it is.

When Bucky wakes up and the bed next to him is empty, he understands that Steve is running - and apparently, he runs 15 miles at least, every day, and he runs them in about an hour, which is disgusting and awful and definitely something Bucky wants to witness - but he can’t quite squash the fear that Steve’s not coming back. _Why would he?_

Then, he remembers what day it is, and he groans so loudly, and for so long into the pillow, the ceiling chimes in concern.

_ <”Is everything alright, Mr. Barnes?> _

“Everything’s good, HAL,” Bucky mumbles back, lifting his good arm but not his head, and giving the ceiling a vague thumbs up.

< _”Very good sir, but I will remind you that Hal is not my designation_ .” _ > _

“Ever murdered somebody?”

There’s a hyper noticeable pause, and then:

<” _No, sir. Not in any proveable capacity._ ”>

“Oy.” Bucky shakes his head and then finally sits up, curling until his side and wiggling ineffectively until he can roll and drop his feet to the floor. He rubs his eyes blearily and then digs his fingers into the meat of his left shoulder muscle, trying to work out the kinks in it from sleeping on it funny on Friday night, when his subconscious couldn’t remember how not to fuck up for five seconds and let him snuggle up under Steve’s arm for uninterrupted hours while putting pressure on precisely the wrong joint. “Hey .. Jarvis? Uh...when d’you think that Steve’ll…”

<” _He departed for his morning exercise precisely one hour and sixteen minutes ago. Captain Rogers asked me to inform you that he will return before seven, although he had expressed a hope that you would still be resting when he got back._ ”>

“Got it.” Bucky stands and stretches out his back as much as he can, wincing, before grabbing his backpack and heading out of the bedroom and towards the bathroom. “Thanks, Jarvis.”

<” _Of course, sir. I took the liberty of ordering acetaminophen while we were talking, to assist with your muscle pain. It should arrive before noon.” > _

Right. Steve wouldn’t keep Tylenol on hand, not with the whole ‘I actively get maimed at my job and think nothing of it because my body fixes itself’ martyr complex he has going. Bucky groans as he flicks the light on in the bathroom, and he groans again when he sees the state of his hair. He debates showering, but decides to just drag a comb through his hair and change quickly into a fresh shirt and underwear, pulling on the same jeans he wore yesterday. Part of him wants to stay in the sweatpants Steve had lent him, wants to curl up in any one of the t-shirts Steve left scattered over his floor like a (darling, endearing) slob, and bury himself in bed, but he can’t ignore what day it is.

Thinking fondly of the king size bed a few meters to his left, and thinking of thread counts near a thousand, Bucky brushes his teeth and fiddles with his hair one last time before walking to the kitchen and digging around in the cupboards.

“Where the fuck are the-”

<” _To your left”_ > Jarvis informs him smugly. Bucky throws a reluctantly grateful look to the ceiling before reaching up. <”... _Your other left, sir.” > _

“Somebody’s a comedian,” Bucky grumbles, grabbing the cabinet and wrenching it open with probably more force than he needs to use. He regrets it immediately, wincing as pain lances through his shoulder, and radiates into his spine and neck. “Motherfucker.” His right hand slaps to where his neck meets his left shoulder, and he bites the inside of his cheek in irritation. “Fuck.” Bucky lets his breath out in one go, and another three note chime sounds from the ceiling.

<” _Is everything al-” > _

“Please don’t.” Bucky closes his eyes and tries not to be irate with the friendly ceiling AI that’s just doing the job it was programmed to do. “Thanks, Jarvis. I just - it’s - can you tell me how to make breakfast using shit Steve already owns and has in his fridge?”

<” _Of course._ ”> JARVIS is an AI, which means he’s (its?) not capable of intonation or inflection, outside of his programming, but Bucky detects a hint of sympathy all the same. Luckily, JARVIS decides to drop the subject, and instead coaches Bucky through a five egg omelette with an odd medley of vegetables, and even heart-shaped pancakes, that Bucky rolls his eyes over but is secretly pleased enough with them to snap a picture.

If only he still used Instagram.

The door opens about three minutes after Bucky’s done scraping the remnants of his last pancake into the trash (he’d inadvertently dialed up the heat on Steve’s stupidly fancy range, and maybe sort of almost burned the thing to a crisp), and Steve walks in, drenched in sweat to the point that his absurdly tight t-shirt is almost see through.

“Buck?” Steve blinks in surprises as he kicks his door shut behind him; the sound of automatic locks hiss, and even though it pains him to admit, the idea of Steve’s apartment being a veritable Stark-insured fortress compared to his own apartment makes Bucky feel leagues better about the whole ‘stalked by his undead ex’ thing (although there’s still the matter of what’s going to happen when the weekend ends and Bucky has to go back home, alone). “I thought you’d still be asleep, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, well” - Bucky waves an awkward hand over the kitchen counter, where he’s laid out the massive omelette and the stack of pancakes - “I figured you’d be hungry, and y’know, it’s” - his ears heat up, unpleasantly, is there a fire in here? - “Y’know. Valentine’s Day.” He mutters the last two words, glaring at the floor as though it’s the reason he’s a total fucking loser.

“You made this?”

Bucky nods, rubbing the not-sore side of his neck, ready to apologize for how flavorless the pancakes probably are, and how there’s not really that much syrup left, but if Steve gives it a chance, you can actually put a little bit of water at the bottom of the bottle, and it makes it last longer, something Bucky figured out his sophomore year of college - and the eggs might not be done quite right, but he’d followed JARVIS’s carefully Googled instructions to a t and -

“You made all of this - for me?” Steve doesn’t sound irritated or fake-pleased. He sounds - Bucky looks up, makes himself look up, to make sure he’s hearing Steve correctly. Sure enough, Steve’s standing at the kitchen counter, eyes locked on the plates, his muscular arms crossed in front of his chest, his hands tucked under his arms as though hugging himself, his shoulders rounded, and his face red (and not from exercise). The only way to describe Steve’s eyes is _misty,_ and it makes Bucky feel a little misty, so he coughs slightly and shrugs.

“Y-yeah. ‘Cuz, I figured...I’ve been ... “ He groans internally and tilts his head back to study the ceiling, praying for JARVIS to do him a solid and maybe smite him before he makes a bigger ass out of himself. “I really like you Stevie. And...I haven’t had a chance to get you a present or anything, and-”

“I love it.” Steve comes around the counter in an instant, and Bucky’s wrapped up in a superhug a second later, and Bucky loves _that._ He loves the gentle yet obviously powerful way Steve holds himself (and the way he holds Bucky), loves the smell of soap and clean sweat that emanates from Steve especially so soon after a workout, loves the way he can hear Steve’s heart, slow and steady and powerful, under his ear. He loves Steve.

(He’d had a dream on Friday night that he’d told Steve exactly that, and he’d dreamed that Steve hadn’t minded at all).

“Really?” Bucky asks, his face already tucked into Steve’s broad chest, the doubt and the happiness at Steve’s simple statement already at war inside of himself.

“Really really.” Steve kisses the side of his head, and Bucky fights the urge to wiggle. “It’s perfect, Buck. I’ll go get changed and come back and eat with you, okay? Wait right here.” He pulls away before Bucky can complain and almost sprints into the bedroom, and it makes Bucky laugh, at the thought that Steve might think Bucky has somewhere better to be.

“I don’t really” - Bucky shakes his head as he hears the closet door being wrenched open - “Eat breakfast.” He smiles affectionately and brings the plates and coffee over to the small table Steve has set up in the nook. There’s a window that faces north, overlooking a park, and there really couldn’t be a prettier day in mid-February. The sun’s starting to rise, making the sky outside a soft, gentle purple and rose, and Bucky sips his coffee while waiting for Steve to tumble back out of the bedroom.

He does tumble out, maybe two minutes after he tumbled in, and Bucky smiles at him from his seat, one foot on the chair so his knee is up near his shoulder. It’s not the most polite way to sit, but it weirdly takes pressure off of his shoulder, and he’s hoping he can pass it off as devil-may-care or charming. The way Steve’s own face lights up with a delighted smile tells him that maybe he succeeded, or maybe Steve Rogers is just that much of an angel to not comment on it.

Steve slides into the seat across from Bucky and grins down at the plates in anticipation.

“Eat up.” Bucky taps a plate towards him and grins. “It’s all for you.”

“What?” Steve frowns in concern and shakes his head. “No, Buck, you gotta eat too-”

“Fine.” Bucky rolls his eyes and spears one slightly lopsided heart pancake and drags it towards himself. He also grabs an orange from the fruit bowl Steve set out on the nook’s table and starts to peel it with a pointed look.

“You have to have more than one.” Steve pouts at him, which surprisingly creates a fairly cogent argument.

“Some of us didn’t wake up and run fifty miles-”

“-It was only twenty-”

“Fucking hell, that’s somehow worse.” Bucky laughs and shakes his head at the look Steve throws him, a combination of glare and fondness. “What I’m saying is, I burn about two thousand calories a day, over here in average Joe land, so I’ll stick with one pancake and one piece of fruit, thank you very much.” He manages to mess up peeling the orange, and Steve takes it from him with a terribly fond smile that makes the edges of Bucky’s stomach curl in like a nervous butterfly coming out of the cocoon, and then Steve finishes peeling in one go (it’s just unfair, how perfect he is). They eat the rest of their meal in relative silence, but Bucky’s heart does multiple gymnastic moves when Steve reaches a hand out across the table while eating his omelette, wiggling his fingers expectantly until Bucky reaches back and places his hand in his.

He doesn’t imagine the way Steve goes pleased pink near the ears when he takes his hand. He also doesn’t imagine the way it makes an uncontrollable smile spread across his own face.

Instead of commenting on it, Bucky looks out the window and watches the sleepy vestiges of night vanish from the sky, replaced by a robin’s egg blue that seems, at first glance, too good to be true.

***

The rest of the Valentine’s Day is similarly uneventful, and similarly spectacular.

They snuggle on Steve’s massive couch, Bucky under a weighted blanket that Steve insists is good for curing what ails you (“Wish we’d had these in 1940,” Steve grumbles as he drapes the heavy item over Bucky’s lap, and honestly, Bucky feels like a cat that’s been grabbed by the scruff, he relaxes so quickly when it covers him) and under Steve’s arm.

Steve lets Bucky pick the first move, and he picks _Lady and the Tramp,_ because it’s a good romance, without being too romance, and it’s sweet, and cute, and he can’t remember watching it with his family, which definitely helps. Also, it’s got nice animation, which Bucky doesn’t even think about until he looks up fifteen minutes in to check Steve’s reaction (he’d been holding back because man, it’s tempting to show someone you care about something you like, and then just spend the whole time watching them watch it), and Steve’s got tears on his face.

“Stevie?” Bucky grabs the remote and pauses the tv. “What’s wrong, baby?”

He freezes when the endearment comes out, but Steve just shakes his head and shrugs, his shoulders rounding in again like he’s trying to make himself feel small. _Does he always do that when he’s upset?_

Steve’s only been big for about five years, something Bucky - and the rest of the world, he’d wager - forgets frequently.

“I just-” Steve shrugs and shakes his head. “Nah. ‘S stupid. Don’t worry about it.”

“Tell me?” Bucky wiggles in closer to him, rubs his hand across Steve’s ludicrously muscular stomach, across the planes of hard muscle that hides (just as much as it protects) everything good and soft and Steve. “I really want to know.”

“I really like animation.” Steve rubs a hand across his eyes, not seeming too embarrassed about crying, which makes Bucky like him even more. (Bucky cries a lot, so he’s happy to know that Steve also indulges in it). “And - it’s just - how they capture so much feeling and emotion and _color_.”

“Oh right.” The thought occurs to him, and Bucky wrinkles his nose. “What’s the first color you saw, Stevie?” Before the serum, Steve had achromatopsia - he’d opened his eyes after the experiment and discovered a whole new world, after a lifetime of shades of grey.

“Red.” Steve smiles but doesn’t explain. The smile seems frozen with a touch of sadness, which makes Bucky wonder, but not enough to push.

“Is that your favorite?” Bucky asks with a grin of his own. He has a lot of red clothing, so maybe he can wear it more often. Or, he could even buy Steve some red things, to add to the bizarrely neutral apartment they’re sitting in, the one absent many personal items or touches.

“It was.” Steve shrugs with one shoulder, and his neck heats up. Bucky trails a finger along the side of Steve’s neck, making him shiver (a heady, powerful knowledge). Bucky’s breath catches in his throat when Steve turns to look at him with a carefully controlled expression.

“What is it now?”

“Blue.” Steve smiles slowly, like he’s got a secret and Bucky’s part of it, and somehow his heart ended up in his throat. How did they get from talking about _Lady and the Tramp_ to this, this feeling of the world ending and beginning all at once. Steve Rogers has no _right_ to look at Bucky Barnes like this, because Bucky is not built to sustain the kind of look Steve’s giving him. He’s not sure many people are, serum or not.

“Blue’s nice,” Bucky squeaks out, intelligently.

“Not just any blue.” Steve strokes the hair hanging over Bucky’s ear, the floppy bits that tell him it’s time for a haircut, or time to lean in to being scruffy. “You should know, Buck - the color of your eyes … I searched for that color for weeks after we met, trying to get it right, so I could draw your eyes. It never worked. There’s no color like it in the world.”

Bucky squirms, wanting to make a joke, but he thinks better of it (or maybe he can’t just form the kind of cohesive thought that humor requires at the moment). Instead, he says, “You drew me?”

“Tried to.” Steve huffs a self-deprecating laugh before cupping Bucky’s jaw and running his thumb thoughtfully along his bottom lip.

“Don’t know if I’m worth drawin’, darling.” Bucky lets another endearment out, another point in his mortification category, but again, Steve doesn’t seem affronted by it. No - his eyes soften even more, his fingers curling around Bucky’s jaw gently as Steve tilts his head and rests his forehead against Bucky’s.

“Don’t you know, sweetheart?”

“Know what?” Bucky asks, wondering if Steve can hear the question over how loud his heart is pounding.

“I’d draw nothin’ but you the rest of my life, if I could.” Steve kisses the tip of his nose in a tender way that should maybe make him feel a little too smothered, but with Steve, it only makes him feel cherished. “I’m...the way I feel about you, Buck. It’s…” Steve shakes his head, unable to finish the thought, but Bucky thinks he understands.

“Me too.” He kisses Steve once, on the lips, and he can feel Steve’s mouth curl into a smile before he pulls away. “Punk.”

“Jerk.” He can hear the smile too, when Steve leans in, and then he’s being gently pressed backwards against the couch. Bucky falls backwards, sliding along until he’s fully on his back, Steve hovering over him, enough of his weight covering him that it’s soothing and not claustrophobic, and they spend a few dozen delirious moments mapping out what makes each other’s breath hitch and sigh.

***

When twilight sweeps across the northern window, casting its purple thrall over the apartment and its inhabitants, Bucky picks up a record and sets it on the turntable - vintage, not a 21st century remake - in the corner of the living room. Steve looks up from where he’s nibbling on the last slice of pizza (there had been three pies, at one point, but Steve had eaten two and a half, and Bucky, about half a pie).

“Still not the best at working that thing,” Steve admits as he polishes off the crust and wipes his hands on his pants. Bucky smirks at him while fiddling with needle. “It’s not like I could afford one before I enlisted.” He rolls his eyes and walks into the living room from the kitchen. “Tony insisted that I would feel more comfortable with ‘this kind of tech,’ and it was here when I moved in. Didn’t have the heart to tell him that an iPod is way the fuck easier to use.”

Bucky laughs, uncontrollably, and Steve grins too. “Have you even touched this thing?”

“Nah.” Steve shrugs helplessly. “Nat poked at it once, but she didn’t like the record selection Tony left.”

At that moment, Bucky’s own selection starts to play, the gentle lull at the start of the album giving way to the opening strains of Doris Day’s classic. “Do you know this one?” Bucky asks curiously, already starting to sway.

“Nah.” Steve blushes and looks out the window to the darkening sky. “Not this singer, at least. Think she's a little past my time. Or maybe, before. Not really...sure where I land.”

“That’s fine. It’s a good song.” Bucky smiles at him, still swaying, and holds his hand out. “Dance with me?”

“I don’t know if I” - Steve looks at him, a desperate kind of sadness, almost a helplessness, etched in his face - “I’ve never danced, Buck.”

“Never?” Bucky’s arm drops slightly, his hand still between them as an open invitation. Steve hasn’t outright rejected him, after all. “I’d...I’d still like to dance with you, baby.” Steve turns bright red, his shoulders rounding again, and Bucky smiles at him, a little shit-eating. He can’t help it. He’s a natural flirt. “Is it okay if I call you baby?”

Steve mumbles something, and Bucky cocks an eyebrow at him, still swaying slightly.

“What was that?”

“Yes.” Steve looks at him, a dangerous look, and Bucky lifts his hand once more, all the way, and smiles in what he hopes, prays, is an enticing way.

Right before Steve takes his hand, a random detail from Bucky’s research as an undergrad slams into him - Steve Rogers’ rumored final words to one Peggy Carter as he took his doomed solo flight, promising her -

“If you don’t want to,” Bucky says quickly, “You don’t have to - it’s - it’s okay-”

“I want to.” Steve takes his hand, and they drift towards each other. “Just not sure what to do? I was always worried I’d step on my partner’s feet.”

“A good partner wouldn’t mind,” Bucky counters, glad that he hasn’t accidentally made Steve regret this entire thing with the unwitting reminder of the love of his life who happens to be dead, who lived an entire lifetime without him (and not for the first time, Bucky’s heart breaks for the kind man in his arms). “They’d still be dancin’ with _you_ , nitwit. No amount of foot stepping would bother the right partner.”

Steve lets out a breath Bucky doubts he realized he was holding and looks at Bucky with not quite a smile in his eyes.

“What?” Bucky asks warily after they’ve swayed in silence for a few seconds. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No. You said something right.”

Steve presses his lips to Bucky’s temple before wrapping his arms around him, and Bucky manages to put a hand on both Steve’s massive shoulders, and they sway in place, Bucky trying to lead them to fit the beat of the song, in the soft warmth of Steve’s living room.

“Is this not the first dance you imagined?” Bucky whispers into the air over Steve’s shoulder as the song comes to a finish.

With a shake of his head, Steve buries his face in Bucky’s neck, and Bucky shifts his hands so they’re pressed to Steve’s back, pulling him in for a hug. “No. It’s...it’s nice, Buck. It's perfect.”

The next song on the record starts to play, Day's voice drifting dreamily across the room, and neither Steve nor Bucky moves from their embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the massive wait, and a massive thank you to all the support you guys have given this fic!!!! it means so much to me to hear and see your feedback! Thank you for reading <3
> 
> In case you were wondering, they're listening to "I Had the Craziest Dream" by Doris Day (the 50s cover - I'm personally more familiar with the '43 version, and Steve would be too, as it's a Vera Lynn clasisic), a line of which is quoted/paraphrased earlier in the chapter. I have...a surprising amount of WWII era music in a playlist, thanks to a Star Wars WWII AU I wrote last fall.
> 
> Chapter 10:
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> Bucky and Wanda/Pietro finally meet!
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> And maybe, the appearance of everyone's favorite Stucky quote....(to fit this AU, of course)


	10. Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky meets the rest of the Avengers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This chapter is Steve's POV**
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> No major warnings here, unless you count hints of Hydra fuckery and general cursing and some mildly steamy make-out sessions.
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> If you hit the Romanian and have no idea what's being said, there's a (google provided) translation in the end notes. 
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> (Sorry this is coming a month late!!! This chapter takes place over the course of the week following the last chapter).

After several moments of largely trying to ignore the distraction in front of him, Steve turns the page of his newspaper, studies the headline proclaiming “Twitter War Erupts Between Presidential Candidates,” and then clears his throat.

“What is it, Clint?”

When he gets no response, Steve sighs and flips down the top of the newspaper to cock an eyebrow at the Avenger currently hanging from the light fixture (reinforced, a fitting exercise in foresight on Tony’s part) in the kitchen area of their common floor, as if that’s a perfectly normal thing to do on a Thursday afternoon. “Clint?”

The archer shifts then looks away from Steve. Purposefully.

“Barton?”

It’s to no avail - from six feet away, Steve can see Clint isn’t wearing his hearing aids at the moment; by turning away, he’s made it so that he can’t read Steve’s lips, thus giving him a fair excuse for not engaging in conversation.

Clint delicately flips off the fixture and begins to slink out of the kitchen, and Steve chucks his paper to the counter and darts forward to cut him off. “Clint Barton,” Steve repeats, glaring down at his friend. <”What’s up?”> He signs the question, and Clint grumbles something before answering.

<”Nothing.”>

<”Really? Nothing?”> Steve sets his hands on his hips and gives his best ‘Captain America Does Not Approve, Jackass’ face. Clint looks suitably guilty and sighs with gusto.

<”I don’t want to worry you.”>

<”I’ll be more worried if you don’t tell me.”> Steve sets his hand on Clint’s shoulder and smiles at him kindly.

<”Bully.”>

Steve nods with a cheerful grin. “Yep.”

Clint drags his hand down his face before finally spitting it out, his hands still oddly hesitant. <”Your boyfriend met a spider.”>

Squinting now, Steve repeats it back to Clint, to make sure he understood. Clint nods warily, which at first doesn’t click in Steve’s brain. “Spider?” It hits him. <”Tell me everything.”>

It turns out he doesn’t have to; Clint’s barely ten seconds into signing the story when the elevator doors open and the spider herself walks into the common room. Not unlike a bull, Steve charges towards her, ignoring Clint’s exclamation of, “Aw, Steve, no-” as he storms forward.

“Care to explain how you just so _happened_ to meet James Barnes today?”

“Thor got to meet him. I was jealous.” Natasha looks utterly unperturbed by the 250 pound supersoldier looming over her, and doesn’t even touch him as she slips past him and heads to the fridge. “He was right though; Fucking-James really is cute.”

“Nat.” Clint’s slipped his hearing aid back in, no doubt to pick up on the drama that’s about to go down, and Steve tries to take a calming breath as their mutual friend tugs on Natasha’s elbow nervously. “I don’t think Steve thinks that’s funny.”

“Steve never thinks anything is funny.” Natasha walks towards the sitting area, a leftover piece of pizza in her hand; she vaults over the back of a couch effortlessly, no hands, and settles against the cushions, ignoring Steve’s glare boring into the back of her head. Clint follows her nervously, eyes darting between her and Steve.

“Maybe you should tell him.”

“Tell him what, exactly?”

“Tell me how you just so happened to stumble across my boyfriend - who works and lives in fuckin’ _Brooklyn,_ by the way - and accosted him.” Steve brings his fuming over to the couch to sit across from Natasha, forcing himself to settle on a nearby ottoman so he can scowl a little less intimidatingly (and to reduce the high chance of Natasha knocking him on his ass if she deems him too threatening).

Nat glares at him coolly, looking unimpressed with his flare of temper, but eventually something, almost imperceptible if it weren’t for the years of friendship between them, softens in her eyes. “I was following him.”

Clint crouches on the back of a nearby sofa to peer anxiously at them, seemingly unaware of how he’s clutching a coaster in his hand like a throwing knife - whether that was intended to block Steve or Natasha from lunging is anyone’s guess.

“You were _following_ my-”

“Tony asked me to.” Nat doesn’t move, doesn’t shift or fidget or avert her eyes. Just looks calmly and steadily at Steve. A display of her honesty, one that might get confused for apathy or cruelty if Steve didn’t know her so well.

“Why did Tony ask you to…” Steve’s brow furrows, and Nat answers right around when his brain puts it together.

“Said he might need protection. Said he’d had a rough weekend, refused to take off work, and might need an extra set of eyes on him, near enough to help if there was a sign of trouble. Didn’t give me the details.” Nat raises his hand placatingly, a gesture definitely for Steve’s benefit and not her own. “I didn’t ask.”

Clint sets the would-be ballistic coaster down as Steve’s shoulders sag. “Bucky needed … you were assigned to watch him?”

“Not assigned. I volunteered.” Nat crosses her legs primly and arches a perfect eyebrow at him. “There’s a SHIELD team stationed at his apartment right now.” Steve nods, mouth dry because _he_ should be there for Bucky, _he_ never should have left his side. But then, after taking an obnoxiously large bite of the pizza she’s still holding, Natasha says something very peculiar:

“Not that he needs it.”

“The threat is real,” Steve says automatically because if Nat’s ever made an honest statement in her life, it’s that Steve Rogers is a shit spy. “Very real.”

Nat’s gaze grows more assessing, and her mouth twists. “I know it’s real. That’s not what I was referring to, Cap.”

“Huh?” Steve blinks, unsure of where she’s going with this.

Nat hands her pizza over her shoulder blindly; Clint darts forward and snags it, slipping into the spot next to her on the couch, munching away happily on the slice. Their free hands thread together naturally, and Clint seems to lean into Natasha’s side as though to support her before she starts talking. It’s odd, how well they read each other; separately, they don’t seem like they should fit together, but the more Steve learns about them, the more their chemistry makes sense.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on him since Monday morning; normal stuff, just making sure he gets to work okay, clearing the coffeeshop before he goes in, and ensuring his trips to the gym are...uneventful. I’m lucky your boy leads a boring life.”

“ _Hey_!”

“No offense meant, Rogers.” Nat rolls her eyes impressively. “If only we could all lead such boring lives. _Anyway_ ” - she ignores the scowl Steve sends her way - “I’m minding my own business - Well. His business - this afternoon, making sure he left school okay, maybe staying a half block behind him while he walked. And to my surprise, he turns an unexpected corner.”

“Maybe he had an errand-”

“ _So,_ ” she pointedly ignores Steve’s interruption, “I turn the corner too, and there’s your _idiot_ boyfriend, waiting for me, not a single weapon on him. His big idea is to push me and scowl. Wants to know what I’m doing following him.”

“He caught you?” That does seem odd. “Were you that obvi-” The glare he catches makes his blood run cold and his question stop short. “Right.”

“Nobody catches me,” Nat seethes. “That’s the whole damn _point_ of me! The Russians didn’t build me so that a fucking school teacher could catch on to me tailing him!”

“Bucky’s pretty smart,” Steve says, entirely too fond. It doesn’t go unnoticed by the two assassins on the couch. “What? He is!”

“I followed you for six months after you got out of the ice, before you decided to come work for SHIELD,” Natasha snaps. “Did _you_ notice?”

His stomach twists unpleasantly. He feels like he’s going to be sick. “You -”

Her expression softens again, and something like an apology forms in her eyes. “Sorry. I didn’t - it was a long time ago. SHIELD wasn’t sure if you were going to be a threat or not. My notes on you were entirely minimal; I gave up wanting to spy on you three days in. If it’s any consolation.”

Steve thinks for a long minute and then shrugs, which makes Natasha relax slightly. “I figured I was being monitored. But - six months? Really?”

“Really. And are _you_ stupid?” Nat seems content to return to her previous line of questioning now that it appears that Steve isn’t going to snap over the revealed betrayal (which, again, happened long before they trusted each other).

“That feels like a trick question.”

“It usually is,” Clint quips, and Natasha elbows him with what Steve knows to be a very pointy, very sharp elbow. “Oof. Right. Sorry.”

“No, you’re not stupid.” Nat answers her own question. “You’re not designed to be stupid. You’re pretty smart, actually, and you have the added bonus of _actual experience_ with surveillance and warfare. So again, how does a nervous school teacher with a degree in fucking 20th Century History and a minor in _Classics_ get the drop on me? A Widow?”

Steve shrugs, at a loss for words, and Clint mirrors him, his own expression bemused.

“So I ask him, and he says - cryptic as shit, mind you - that I should see him with a gun.”

“I’m not sure what that-”

“I did some research on your boy, after that little statement.” Nat glares at him. “Did you not realize that he was nationally ranked in shooting by the age of 16? He was slated to be in the Olympics - predicted to win the gold, too - but he disappeared from the circuit and turned down every scholarship offer made to him after what happened to his -”

“Stop.” Steve shifts uneasily, and blessedly, Nat listens. “Bucky hasn’t told me any of that, and probably for good reason. I don’t - it feels wrong to learn about things he hasn’t told me.”

“He knew about you before you met him.” Nat’s eyebrows lower into a careful frown. “Your entire life is public knowledge.”

“And I fuckin’ hate it,” Steve says earnestly. “God, the fact that everyone I’m ever going to meet thinks they _fucking_ know me because I was an entire chapter in their goddamn history textbook makes me want to fucking puke, Nat. My entire life, up for grabs; strangers on the street askin’ me about Pegs as if they gave a flying fuck, wantin’ to shoot the shit about motherfucking Hydra like they honestly _know,_ wanting to know about the asthma and my mother, God rest her soul, my own mother’s fucking death.” He almost stands as his voice rises, but he forces himself to stay seated, forces himself to remember that he isn’t 5’4” anymore, that when he stands and shouts to be heard, it’s an abuse of the gift Abraham gave him.

“Bucky has _never_ pretended to have some leg-up on me for knowing my life story. He’s always tried to get to know me, has always asked me things about me, and not about Steve Rogers, Living Legend. I’m not Lazarus to him, or Frankenstein’s monster, I’m an actual fucking _person_.” His voice breaks, but he can’t be bothered to be embarrassed of it.

Nat’s expression is the least controlled he’s ever seen it, and Clint looks close to tears.

“I’m … I’m thankful you kept an eye on him, but no, I don’t want to _even the field,_ or whatever logic you’re following, where Bucky’s concerned. He’s never once used his extensive knowledge of my life and the war I fucking died in to assert some sort of _ownership_ over my story. So I don’t want to hear his story before he’s willing to tell it. Because I know, out of anyone I’ve met in this fucking century, Bucky’s the one person who woulda wanted to hear me tell my own story. He woulda given me that dignity.”

“You’re right,” Nat says quietly when he’s done ranting. Steve balls his hands into fists and rests them on his knees, taking deep, controlled breaths to keep from crying. “I didn’t think about it like that. My - my own story was taken from me, so … I forget how important they are to other people. I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Steve nods and looks up. “It’s… I understand.” She offers him a rare, genuine smile, smaller than the ones she gives Clint, but real all the same, and Steve returns it. Clint wraps his arm around Nat’s shoulder, kissing the side of her head, and Steve’s just thinking it feels a little less tense in the room when a new voice pipes up.

“Not that that wasn’t … mildly terrifying to witness.” Tony closes the fridge door and eyes the trio in the sitting room. Steve glares at him, and Nat doesn’t even turn around. “But is it the wrong time to say that I really think Buckeroo should meet the team? Because I think it’s time.”

“Tony,” Steve says warningly.

“Alright, alright.” Tony raises a hand in mock surrender as he takes a sip of his protein shake. “Just… lots of interest buzzing around James Barnes in this Tower; your friends wanna meet him, Cap, officially. And we’re the kind of people who go poking when we’re curious. Something to think about.”

“You told me to follow him, shit dick,” Nat snaps.

“Easy.” Tony saunters over, seemingly undisturbed by the Murder Eyes Nat’s sending his way. “Let’s not get into the details of who suggested to whom that it was time to tail certain vulnerable civilians who’re dating certain, unnamed, very visible celebrity superheroes with more than blatant connections to Nazi sub-organizations that may or may not be active in this millennium.” Tony plops down on the armrest of the couch Nat and Clint are sitting on.

Steve buries his face in his hand before he grumbles something he’s bound to regret, and soon. “Fine. You can meet him.”

“Was that so hard?” Tony asks gleefully, offering some of his protein shake to Clint; he sniffs the offered item warily before sipping on the straw.

“Aw, shake, no.”

***

“Now all of you be on your best behavior,” Steve hisses, glaring at the grouped Avengers who are all strategically posed around the common area. Tony’s parked at the counter with Bruce, both of them wearing matching band t-shirts, and Nat and Clint are sitting near the pizza (of course), matching shit-eating grins on their cute little faces. Devils.

Wanda and Pietro haven’t made an appearance yet, but Thor is bouncing excitedly at the window, picking his hammer up, putting his hammer down, picking his hammer up.

“Thor.” Steve jabs a finger at him. “Do _not_ ask Bucky to lift the hammer. We do _not_ want him questioning his worthiness while he’s here. Got it?”

Thor mumbles something in an ancient language before sighing. “I have got it, Friend-Steve.” He sets the hammer down and dusts his hands off. He doesn’t pick it up again.

“Wow Dad, you’re really worried about us meeting our New Dad.” Tony bats his eyelashes at him, and Steve’s overwhelmed with the urge to hiss like an alleycat. Huh. That’s new.

“I’ll watch him,” Rhodey offers, gripping Tony’s shoulder and giving him a stern glance before smiling at Steve. “If only because Pep’s out of town tonight.”

“I should call her,” Tony mutters, patting his jacket absentmindedly.

“You called her an hour ago,” Bruce comments mildly, dipping a pretzel in the provided hummus. “Oh neat. There’s little pieces of jalapeno in this. Did you see, Steve?” He holds up his pretzel for examination, a triumphant smile on his face, and Steve huffs.

“Just. Please. For me?” He wheedles, and Nat rolls her eyes.

“He’s going to think you aren’t coming to get him,” she reminds him, and Steve blanches.

“Shit.” He summons the elevator and breathes a sigh of relief when the doors open automatically. “Thanks JARVIS.”

<”I had it waiting for quite some time, sir.”>

“Well, that was an unnecessary detail.” Steve walks in and bounces on his feet anxiously as they near the ground floor. “JARVIS, do you think I should just grab him and run when I get down there?”

<”An excellent question, Captain Rogers. I feel obligated to inform you that Mr. Stark has asked me to initiate Best Friends Forever Protocol in the event of you attempting to flee the premises tonight.”>

“Do I want to know what that is?” Steve eyes the numbers as they coast to the lobby.

<”It involves the immediate lockdown of the entire tower, Captain.”>

“Great.” Steve sighs and then blessedly, they’re at the lobby. When the doors hiss open, Bucky’s already waiting, an anxious expression on his ludicrously handsome face. “Oh, thank God.” He throws himself off the elevator with little to no dignity. “Buck.”

He kisses his forehead and wraps his arms around him, holding him tightly. “Was the ride over okay?”

“You mean, was the very polite, swanky as hell chauffeur acceptable?” Bucky snorts and pushes at his arm playfully before hugging him back. “I think I’ll live.”

“Good.” Steve presses his lips into Bucky’s temple, his gut flaring slightly with warmth when Bucky’s lips press into his neck in response. “Let’s just skip this whole thing and go to my floor, huh?”

“Tempting,” Bucky chuckles, sounding as nervous as he looks. “Very tempting. But I want to meet your friends. I do. And I even took a Xanax, and I’m not wasting it.”

“Xanax.” Steve wrinkles his nose and pulls away. “Bruce keeps offering me some of his ‘home-cooked Xanax.’ Still not sure what that means.”

“Oh my God.” Bucky laughs for real, his miraculous grey-blue eyes lighting up with mirth, crinkling at the corners in that stupidly perfect way of his. “Dr. Bruce Banner, Nobel Prize winner, wants to be your weed man.”

“My-” Steve splutters and then frowns. “Huh. No actually, that makes a lot of sense.”

Bucky’s still giggling when they walk onto the elevator; before they can press the button for the common floor, he tugs on the front of Steve’s shirt, surging up on his toes, his face upturned,  mouth pursed in a very obvious way. “Give me a proper hello?”

Steve places his hands carefully on either side of Bucky’s face, lowering his mouth to his for a searing kiss. He’s grateful, beyond grateful, that the Tower is closed to pedestrian foot traffic at this time of day; the only people who could possible see this are the ones monitoring the security camera or the front desk, and the NDA they signed to work at the Avengers Tower would probably lead to their permanent residence in a jail cell if they ever broke it.

“Hello,” Steve whispers before kissing him again, licking at Bucky’s bottom lip until he gains entrance. Their tongues slide together lazily, Bucky’s hands growing tighter against Steve’s chest, and he groans slightly when his nails drag down towards his abdomen. “Fuck,” he pants for breath after a few more moments like this, resting his forehead against Bucky’s. “I was kidding before, but seriously - let’s just go to my floor.”

“No, we can’t keep them waiting.” Bucky, no doubt, is going for nonchalant or admonishing, but it just comes out breathless and makes Steve even harder. “As much as I want to.”

“You want to?” Steve surges his hips forward slightly, pushing this definitely towards the indecent. Whatever. Give security a show.

Bucky leans into it, pushing his own, definite erection up against Steve’s, causing them both to moan into their next kiss.

“Fuck, babydoll.” Steve slides his nose against Bucky’s before ducking down to suck a kiss under his jaw. Bucky grabs his arms for support as his head tilts back. “Lemme take care of you, please, that’s all I want-”

“ _Steve_ .” Bucky laughs shakily and shakes his head. Immediately, Steve pulls back, apologetic and regretful. “No, sweetheart, not _no,_ ” he grabs Steve’s hand and kisses it. “Just not right now. We gotta meet the team.”

“We don’t gotta,” Steve grumbles mulishly.

But, in contradiction to his statement, the elevator begins to rise upwards without his bidding. “What the hell, JARVIS?”

<”Sir requests your immediate presence on the common floor, Captain Rogers and Mr. Barnes. My apologies.”>

“Shit.” Steve looks down at his obvious erection and sighs. “That’s not going away anytime soon.”

“Just think about something unsexy,” Bucky supplies, smoothing his hair out. Now that he isn’t pawing at his boyfriend, Steve can appreciate the nice outfit he has on, the well-pressed slacks and blue shirt that brings out Bucky’s eyes, complimented by a grey jacket that even Wanda would most likely bedgrudgingly approve of.

“Literally impossible with you standing next to me,” Steve answers truthfully, letting his eyes linger on Bucky more than strictly necessary. Bucky blushes and looks away, still smoothing his hair out nervously. “They’re really excited to meet you,” he says softly. “They can be really overwhelming, but … they’re good people. Even Tony. They just don’t get to … normal a whole lot.”

“They don’t get to normal?” Bucky tilts his head but smiles sweetly and shrugs. “Fuck, Steve, with the shit show my life is right now, I think I’m going to disappoint your friends if they’re expecting normal.”

“They aren’t expecting anything,” Steve counters gently, taking Bucky’s hand. “Just the guy who’s stolen my heart.”

Bucky blushes even harder and stares at the floor of the elevator. Steve squeezes his hand as they reach their destination; the doors open, and with one last reassuring squeeze, Steve leads Bucky into the common area.

***

“It’s official, we want to trade him for you,” Sam declares, jabbing a pizza crust at Bucky, then Steve, a grin spread across his face. He’d arrived an hour after Bucky, having flown in from D.C. after an important meeting with a Senator regarding a bill to increase funding for the VA.

“Gee thanks, Sam.” Steve flicks what’s left of his own crust at Sam, who snatches it and throws it to Clint. The crust quickly disappears, and Bucky laughs at the look of consternation on Steve’s face.

“I don’t know what you expected, sweetheart,” he snorts, reaching forward to grab his water glass. Then, he freezes, and his eyes dart around the table nervously as he stammers. “Uhh, I mean-”

“Oh, that’s _definitely_ the best thing I’ve heard all day.” Tony grins wickedly, but Steve shoots him a look - he hopes Tony understands that it says _if you make of that, you’re making fun of Bucky, too, and I will throw you from the top of this Tower, sans-suit._

“I mean. That’s a totally normal thing to hear someone casually call the man my father had a hard-on for,” Tony says, waving a hand before taking a huge bite of pizza.

“Good catch,” Nat snarks, and they go back to ribbing each other in typical style. Steve looks over at Bucky, putting his arm on the back of his chair. Bucky leans into it with a shy smile, looking up at Steve through his fringe of dark hair.

“Are you having a good time?” He asks quietly. Thor looks over, eyebrows raised, the only person with senses keen enough and manners strange enough to have eavesdropped so obviously.

“Yeah.” Bucky nods and rests his head against Steve’s arm for a second. “I’m glad I came.”

“Me too.” Steve desperately wants to kiss Bucky, and he also desperately wants to pull Bucky away from the table - like a teenager, he thinks, he’s been reduced to one of those kids in those teen movies who just wants to go necking with his fella in a parked car - but at the same time, he also wants Bucky to get the most out of this experience.

So, he swallows the invitation for now, grabs his own water glass, and buckles in for a very long-winded story Thor begins regarding someone named Hela who seems to be his long-lost sister, who also is a harbinger of death, and all Steve can think is _Is Thor the odd duckling of his family, and not Loki?_

But, Bucky’s under his arm, and there’s plenty of food and good spirits to go around; Tony’s smiling and looking less tired than he has in months, Natasha’s relaxed and snuggled up next to Clint, who doesn’t so much as flinch when Rhodey accidentally drops his plate on the table with a loud crash, and Sam keeps shooting conspiratorial grins, complete with snide winks, over at Steve.

More than ever, this feels like home.

***

The rest of the Avengers trickle away as the night goes on, as though on cues.

Rhodey’s first to leave, claiming that he and Sam have “Unattended business” in the city. Sam hoots with excitement as they disappear, leading Steve to believe that this business might be conducted in a bar.

Bruce and Tony are next, the former carrying two boxes of pizza with him while they hop into the elevator to head down to the lab to test the limits of the known universe. Thor falls asleep on the couch, snoring in a way that Steve would deem theatrical if it wasn't for the fact that Thor does everything theatrically, a fact that is more endearing than annoying at this point.

Nat and Clint are last to leave, after another half hour of conversation at the table. Clint yawns more and more, though, until Natasha pulls him up from the table with a real laugh, hauling him behind her so they can head to their floor. “Good night, lovebirds,” Clint sings, off-key, while they walk onto the elevator. Steve barely has a chance to flip him the bird before the doors slide shut behind them.

“How bad was it?” Steve asks, combing his fingers through Bucky’s beautiful hair. His eyes flutter shut as he leans into it, rubbing his face into Steve’s palm like a cat; he wouldn’t be surprised if he started purring.

“Not bad at all,” Bucky answers with a smile. “I really, really liked them.”

“Yeah?” Steve smiles, hoping the excitement isn’t showing too obtrusively on his face. If Bucky’s only being polite, he shouldn’t feel like he can’t say otherwise. “You sure?”

“I’m sure I’m sure,” Bucky says serenely. “They were really fun, and they obviously love you. That makes them pretty alright in my book.”

Steve kisses him softly before standing and holding his hand out. “Bed?”

“Bed,” Bucky agrees, his cheeks flushing slightly. They head to the elevators, but before they can, the bay lights up with an approaching lift.

When the doors slide open, the Maximoff twins finally appear.

“There you two are.” Steve grins at them. “Buck, this is Wanda and Pietro Maximoff. Guys, this is James Barnes, my boyfriend.” He almost says _partner,_ but he catches himself just in time. It’s barely been two months, after all, and he doesn’t want to scare Bucky away with how permanent this all feels to him. After what he heard Bucky mumble, half-awake the other day, he doesn’t think it’s definitely unreturned. But still. No sense in scaring him away.

Wanda edges forward towards them, her large brown eyes luminous and unblinking. She studies Bucky for a long moment, and addresses Steve without taking her eyes off the other man.

“We are sorry for not being at dinner. I had headache.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve says with a shrug. “I just wanted you to get a chance to meet each other, so, mission accomplished.”

Pietro grins at him over Wanda’s shoulder, but his expression is somewhat concerned, his eyes flicking to Wanda here and there. While her migraines are frequent and easily explained by the constant electrical storms that rage around and inside Wanda Maximoff, Steve can’t help but wonder if this headache was out of the ordinary, even for her.

Wanda reaches back to take her twin’s hand, and continues to stare at Bucky, who, to his credit, looks back at her calmly, seemingly undisturbed by her behavior.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Bucky offers, and then Wanda tilts her head, flames seeming to flicker to life in her eyes.

 _Don’t_ \- Steve’s about to say, but it’s too late, as Wanda clearly does her… Wanda thing.

“ _Ești român?_ ” Wanda asks, her hand stll tight around Pietro’s.

Steve frowns, not quite following, that is, until Bucky turns pink at the ears and nods. “ _Da. Bunicii mei s-au imigrat inainte de Depresiune_.”

“I didn’t know you spoke Romanian,” Steve says softly, but Bucky’s got his eyes trained on Wanda, who isn’t looking away from him. She steps forward, letting go of Pietro; her twin follows close behind her, a tall, lanky shadow to her small form. Her hand out-stretches towards Bucky, red almost-flames flickering between her fingers.

“ _Și Hydra? Te-au rănit și pe tine?_ ”

Steve stiffens at the familiar word in the midst of the unfamiliar, and Bucky stiffens too, his shoulders locking in what Steve now knows to be anxiety. Before he can figure out how to kindly tell Wanda to back off, Bucky whispers “ _Da,_ ” and takes Wanda’s offered hand delicately. “ _Îmi pare rău._ ”

He looks over Wanda’s head at her brother, and Pietro seems at a loss of words for once, nervousness radiating out from him now. They exchange a look, and then Bucky clears his throat. _“_ _Unde sunt parintii tai_?”

Pietro shrugs nervously and then rapidly, slow for him, but rapid all the same, starts to speak. Steve loses most of it, but Pietro’s face turns red as he talks, and, the slowest he’s ever moved, he inches towards Bucky, who whispers something in Romanian here and there, still holding Wanda’s hand.

At one point, Bucky murmurs something so fast, Steven can barely catch it - but his ears register that it isn’t Romanian Bucky speaks in at all; instead, it’s a language he recalls from corners of Brooklyn, growing up.

It’s Yiddish.

Pietro bursts into tears, and Steve realizes it’s the first time he’s ever seen the teenager cry.

Ever since they pulled them out of that Hydra hellhole last year, it’s been Wanda who’s always appeared more fragile, Pietro acting in defense of her more often than not, vocally expressing their joint anxieties when they needed something to be done. Pietro had worn a brave face almost every day of the last year, but now, something in him seems to break, and Bucky holds an arm out without speaking as Pietro swoops in and buries his face in Bucky’s neck.

He has to bend down to do it, but the tall boy seems somehow smaller in Bucky’s arms, while his twin crowds in to complete the embrace.

In that moment, Steve can see what makes Bucky such an incredible teacher. It isn’t the fact that he knows a terrifying amount about world history, and can command a class with minimal effort. It isn’t his sense of humor, his dry wit, or his ability to pull together a lesson.

Bucky Barnes is _kind,_ no matter what weight the world has put on his shoulders, the things he’s been tested by.

Bucky is kind in a way so few people are, and Steve loves him for it. Unbearably. Endlessly.

He should tell him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't speak Romanian, but here's a brief translation (Google Translate acquired) of what Wanda/Bucky/Pietro say:
> 
> Wanda: "Are you from Romania?"
> 
> Bucky: "Yes, my grandparents immigrated before the Great Depression."
> 
> Wanda: "And Hydra hurt you too?"
> 
> Bucky: "Yes. I'm sorry" (that they hurt you) then, to Pietro/Wanda: "...Where are your parents?"
> 
>  
> 
> _Anyway_
> 
> Catch me still upset that they erased the Maximoff twins' status as Romani/Jewish in the MCU.  
>    
> Bucky is also Jewish in this story, as mentioned before; and, Sebastian Stan is Romanian (if you haven't ever heard him speak in Romanian, there are some great videos). To the best of my knowledge, Yiddish is also spoken in Romania by parts of the Jewish population. You best believe I wanted these little ducklings to have a found family since day One of this fic.
> 
> In other news, I'm sorry for being MIA for a month, the Star Wars muse hit hard and I got sidetracked on this project. But, I opened the doc tonight after watching the Endgame Trailer fifteen times in a row and now it's 2 am and I'm not even hesitating to hit publish, so I hope people are still interested in this story/ are awake here in the wee hours of EST.
> 
> Thank you, as always, for reading! (and I promise there will be smut. Soon.) come yell at me on tumblr if you want (dracosollicitus.tumblr.com)


	11. Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve .... y'know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE SMUT IS HERE.
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings for:  
> References to abuse/references to Nazis/difficult conversation on past abusive relationship.
> 
>  
> 
> Steve and Bucky have a heart to heart that leads to ~feelings~ which leads to smut, basically.
> 
> (Hi so I fixed a few typos and now its saying pub date 3/18 - if you’ve read Steven and Bucky’s first time this is not an update!! This is the update from 3/17)

The doors hiss open on Steve’s floor, and Bucky walks out while JARVIS pleasantly greets them.

[ _Welcome home, Captain Rogers. Is there anything you require?_ ]

“Just privacy, thanks JARVIS.” There’s a gentle chime and then silence. JARVIS must have some sort of privacy protocol in place because even the windows dim, blocking the outside world, and the lights turn down in intensity. If he were feeling different, Bucky might make a smart-ass comment like, _bring guys up here a lot, Stevie_?

But he doesn’t feel like making a smart-ass comment.

Instead, he looks around the open space, which includes a large sitting area, wall to wall windows, and a massive kitchen, and which bears no more personal items than the apartment in Brooklyn. The floor is a rich, dark wood, and there’s a handful of stools that look decorative more than anything else placed strategically around the large counter in the kitchen.

They haven’t said anything to each other since getting on the elevator, after they left Wanda and Pietro in their rooms (“He just needs some time,” Wanda had said quietly, rubbing circles on her twin’s back.)

When his eyes return to Steve, the larger man rubs his neck and smiles at Bucky, something worried in his eyes. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Bucky says, ducking in to stand closer to Steve. He leans forward until his head is resting on Steve’s chest, and the steady, almost painfully slow beat of Steve’s heart is under his ear. Automatically, Steve’s arms wrap around him, and Bucky sighs through his nose; he feels safe. He always feels safe with Steve.

“That was a lot.” Steve noses Bucky’s hair like an overgrown puppy, and Bucky’s lips twitch upwards despite the way his stomach is still settling. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay,” Bucky says truthfully. “Wanda’s a little…”

“Intense?”

“Yeah.” Bucky nods - he doesn’t ever want to revisit the way it felt when she’d lifted her hand and casually sifted through _something_ inside him, not quite an invasion, but more of an examination - but he lifts his hands to rest on the small of Steve’s back. “Still though. She’s a good kid. So is Pietro. I like them.”

“They’re very good kids,” Steve agrees, and Bucky’s eyes flutter shut at how pleasant it is to hear and feel Steve’s voice rumble inside his chest. “I’m real glad you like ‘em.”

“They love you,” Bucky says thoughtfully, and Steve’s arms tighten around him. “You can just … tell. They needed someone, and you stepped up.” He pulls away from Steve’s embrace just enough to look into Steve’s face. His throat burns a little when he says, “You saved them.”

“The team saved them,” Steve corrects automatically, as though it’s instinct for him to avoid any kind of praise. It makes Bucky’s heart hurt to think about, so he shakes his head vehemently.

“No. I mean _you_ saved them.” Bucky shifts slightly, and as though sensing the flare of anxiety in his gut, Steve lets go of him and just takes his hands instead. Steve squeezes reassuringly, long, artist’s fingers flexing around Bucky’s hands, and Bucky smiles down at the way their fingers are tangled together, glad to have something to look at that isn’t the bright blue of Steve Rogers’s eyes. “You won their trust, and that’s huge. They came from a place of no trust, of horror and pain, and a whole bunch of shit no one should ever go through, especially kids.”

“They told you?” Steve guesses, freezing up slightly. It’s obvious in the way he holds his shoulders. “About Hydra?”

Bucky clears his throat and nods. “Yeah. They uh - they mentioned. And...if it’s okay with you, I’d like to see them some more. Both of them.” Bucky tilts his head back to look at Steve, worry making his mouth turn downwards, but the need to do _something_ pushing him forward. “I’m still...really messed up by what happened with …” His voice fails him for a second, and Steve nods encouragingly. “I mean, it’s bad enough what he did to me.” Again, his voice falters, and a small crease appears between Steve’s eyebrows.

Right. He never did tell Steve the full extent of what happened. It’s not for today, but the moral of the story might suffice.

“Do you want to sit, sweetheart?” Steve looks over Bucky’s shoulder at the massive white couch in the living room, but Bucky shakes his head.

“Nah. I wanna stand. Thanks though.” Steve goes back to running his thumbs up and down Bucky’s knuckles, and it’s soothing and noninvasive, and he makes himself continue. “Anyway. It’s...it was bad enough, but fuck, when I found out he was _Hydra._ ” His voice cracks, and something in his chest that’s already cracked, that’s been cracked, twinges painfully. “I’m - I loved him. I did. For better or for worse, I was in love with him, or the idea of him, or the persona he was wearing when I met him. I met him when I was _twenty_ , and stupid, and I was so lonely, and so happy that someone older and good-looking even would like twice at me, and…”

“Hey.” Steve leans forward enough to brush his nose along Bucky’s hairline at his temple. “I’m so … grateful that you trust me enough to tell me this, Buck, but you don’t gotta push yourself to explain why you were with him to me. Or why you stayed. You don’t have to explain yourself to me for me to know that it wasn’t your fault.”

Bucky nods, his eyes closed, and only two tears slip out, which is definitely better than it could be.

“Fuck. Sorry, it’s not really the point of this. So, uh, yeah, Project Insight happened, and I kept telling myself I could see him everywhere and -” _Now we know that I probably was,_ he doesn’t say, but Steve’s expression darkens all the same. “Come to find that my shitty ex-boyfriend is Hydra.” He can’t stop the sob that tears out of him, then. “He was in my life for almost three years. I let him in. He - he was Hydra, the whole time.” His shoulders start to shake, and Steve wraps him up again, his chest warm and solid and comforting as Bucky weeps.

Eventually, he collects himself, and Steve lets him go, reaching for his hands again.

“I know what it’s like to be hurt by Hydra,” Bucky says softly, his cheeks still damp. “I know. And it’s - with the twins, it’s a different kind of pain because they sure as fuck didn’t sign up for it-”

“You didn’t either,” Steve interjects forcibly, glaring almost in his Righteous Captain America way, stern and soft and worried all at the same time. Bucky snorts.

“Yeah. Sorry. Intrusive thoughts are something I’m still working on in therapy.” Steve squeezes his hands again. “Anyway. The fact that those Nazi fucks couldn’t leave those kids alone - it makes me so angry. But, I … I have done a lot of therapy for it, and...I’m trained to work with vulnerable kids, and… I really did like Wanda and Pietro. So, if you’re okay with it…” Bucky trails off and shrugs with his right shoulder. “I wanna see them again. If you’ll let me.”

“Shit, Buck.” Steve releases a breath and leans into kiss his forehead tenderly, letting go of his hands only to slide his fingers through Bucky’s hair, at the back of his neck. “Babydoll, you don’t need to ask my permission-”

“You’re the person who currently cares the most for their well-being,” Bucky points out, eyebrows raised up at his boyfriend. “I don’t know who you appointed their guardian, or whatever, or if it’s the full team, but _you’re_ the person they trust. You can see it when they look at you. So, I know that you have their best interest at heart, and that’s why I’m asking. I want to help them. I want to spend time with them. I - I’m not the most functional person, I know.” He closes his eyes again, but Steve’s lips brush over his forehead again, smoothing out some of the lines. “But I want to help.”

He feels very small for a second, silly even, but then Steve sighs into his hair gently, ruffling it slightly. “Of course, Buck.” He relaxes at the way Steve continues to press kisses along his forehead, his temple, his cheek, trailing a line to Bucky’s ear. They wrap each other up in another embrace, swaying slightly in what could almost be described as dancing, and Bucky’s heart picks up tempo again.

Steve pulls away so he can look down at Bucky with a soft look in his bright eyes; then, he brings his massive hands up to frame his face, and slowly, he leans down to press his lips to Bucky’s.

It’s a warm kiss, soft but sure, and Bucky melts into it, his fingers wrapping around the obscene muscle in Steve’s biceps. When Steve licks into his mouth, in a way that’s definitely delicate but still causes Bucky’s knees to grow weak, Bucky opens up to it, growing warmer by the second, his cheeks flushing, and his stomach swooping pleasantly at the gentleness Steve shows him, that he always shows him.

They pull apart for a moment, and Steve looks into his eyes with something close to intensity, but not as frightening. It’s like all of time and space suspends around them, and Bucky knows nobody in the history of the universe has ever looked at him, could ever look at him the way Steve Rogers does.

“I love you,” Steve says, and Bucky’s heart leaps to his throat. His eyes tear up immediately, which is mortifying, but Steve’s don’t look entirely dry either when the words leave his mouth. “I’m so in love with you, Buck. You’re my whole world.”

“I-” He cuts himself off, stops himself from making any kind of joke or attempt to dodge the intensity of what Steve’s just said. Bucky takes a deep breath instead, and reaches up slowly to hold Steve’s face in his hands. “I trust you.”

Something flickers in Steve’s eyes as he tilts his head, a small smile on his full lips. Bucky strokes his thumbs along the unreal angle of Steve’s jaw and smiles back.

“That’s sort of what I was trying to say earlier. I didn’t think I’d ever trust anyone again, but you have never made me feel anything but safe. And wanted. And you can’t know what that means to me.”

“Buck.” It’s said softly, and Steve turns his head to kiss Bucky’s fingertips gently. Bucky continues to stroke his thumb along his jawline, marveling at the stubble that’s really more of a short beard at this time of day.

“Steve.” Bucky licks his bottom lip, and he doesn’t imagine the way Steve’s eyes track the movement. Something in him whispers that this can’t be real, that Steve Fucking Rogers, a hero and a legend and a good man, could really want him.

But Steve Rogers doesn’t lie.

“There’s a word,” Bucky continues, and Steve’s eyes crinkle up at the corners, seemingly content even though Bucky hasn’t said the words back, yet, “In Yiddish, for what I think you are.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve’s smile deepens, and he places his hands on Bucky’s hips, pulling him in slightly. “What is it?”

“ _Bashert_. It means...destiny.” Bucky searches Steve’s face for any sign of mockery, but _no,_ Steve is Steve, and Steve would never mock him for his heritage, his identity. “It’s used for when you find the person you’re supposed to be with, who matches your soul. Your soulmate.”

“Bashert?” Steve repeats, his hands tightening slightly on Bucky’s hips, pulling him in closer.

“Yeah.” Bucky nods, gathering the courage to say the rest. “I think you’re mine. My soulmate that is.”

“Yeah?” Steve’s cheeks flush bright red, and his eyes seem even bluer. He ducks his head and smiles, looking impossibly pleased, which is confusing and flattering at the same time. “Shit.” He laughs sweetly, his cheeks somehow darkening, and Bucky grins.

“I love you,” he says, feeling lighter as the words escape him. “I love you, and I trust you, and-”

Steve kisses him again, more eagerly than the last time, and Bucky would be knocked off his feet if it weren’t for how Steve catches him up in his arms and holds him tightly. It’s less gentle, but no less reverent, how Steve holds him this time, how he kisses him with increasing urgency, almost lifting Bucky off the ground in his enthusiasm.

Bucky’s laughing by the end of it, feeling lighter than he has in months, relieved and happy, so damn happy. Steve covers his face with kisses, dotting them along his forehead, his cheeks, his nose while Bucky shoves at him playfully.

They kiss again, Bucky laughing into it for a second, feeling light-headed from how quickly the mood shifted towards one of more jubilance, but Steve does _something_ to his bottom lip, something involving teeth and tongue, accompanied by a twist of his hips, and then Bucky’s not laughing, just kissing Steve back with everything he’s got, his hands fisted in Steve’s shirt, hauling him in closer.

“Fuck,” Steve pants when they separate to breathe. Bucky kisses his open mouth hungrily and nods.

“Good idea.”

“That’s not-” He can practically feel the blush radiating out from Steve then, and Bucky continues to kiss what he can reach, namely, Steve’s jaw and throat. Steve swallows, and Bucky chases the movement with his lips, ducking his head down to suck on the warm skin above Steve’s collarbone. “ _Hnng-_ ”

“Oh, that’s fun,” Bucky comments dryly, before licking over the red spot he’d created. Steve gasps and tilts his hips forward again, and Bucky feels downright devious, feels light and wild and hot under the skin, feeling like he’s in undergrad and using his looks to get his way again.

But this is Steve, who he loves, and it gentles one more time when Steve hauls him up to kiss him properly.

“If you’re going to defile me, let’s at least do it in the bedroom,” Steve jokes, not too lightly, based on the way his eyes have darkened.

“That’s funny.” Bucky grins at him, still pushing his hips up eagerly into Steve’s, knowing that he can’t do this much longer while wearing these damn pants, but still appreciating the way it makes Steve’s breath hitch. “When I met you, I thought you’d be the one defiling me. I thought you’d be a total Daddy.”

“A _what_?”

“Oh, shit.” It’s Bucky’s turn to blush, and he bites his lip again, something Steve, again, notices. “Like … a Dom? Y’know, bossy in bed, and-”

“I know what a Dominant is, Buck.” Steve rolls his eyes. “I am almost a hundred years old.”

Bucky fights back a hysterical giggle and the desire to make a Twilight joke, instead focusing on the fact that this means -

“You do?” Bucky smirks at him. “Not your cup of tea?”

“No, it is.” Steve shrugs casually, as if he hasn’t suddenly found the exact way to Bucky’s dick, which has gone beyond twitching in interest to a full-on erection, pushing up against his zipper in a most uncomfortable way. “Especially with a sweet boy like you.”

“ _Ohh_.” Bucky shudders, without even being touched, and he wilts slightly against Steve’s chest, feeling a bit like a girl on the cover of a Romance novel.

Come to think of it, Steve would look great in a billowing, unbuttoned, white shirt. _Later, brain. We masturbate to that later. Steve here now. Steve hot. Steve._

Well, there goes rational thought.

“Oh.” Steve rubs his nose along Bucky’s jaw. “We’ll have fun with that later, huh, Buck?”

“Mhm.” Bucky nods and then squeaks when Steve bends slightly, grabs him under the ass, and hoists him into his arms as though Bucky weighs ten pounds. He squeaks in a very embarrassing way, and Steve laughs warmly, staring up at Bucky with definite fondness.

“I’ll defile you later,” Steve promises, his hands kneading Bucky’s ass slowly as he holds him. “But for now, I just wanna get my hands on you.”

“Sounds good,” Bucky says breathlessly. He squirms, in a way he forgets to be embarrassed by, trying to get some friction against his dick again, and Steve laughs again, striding deeper into the apartment with Bucky in his arms.

“I love you,” Steve reminds him, and it’s just as incredible the second time. They walk through a doorway, and even though Bucky can’t see where they’re going, he has an idea a second later when Steve sets him down tenderly on a large, soft bed. Bucky stares up at him, his heart pounding his chest, as Steve smiles at him, looking pleased, his pupils blown so wide the blue of his eyes is almost entirely swallowed.

“I love you too,” Bucky says, feeling a little more shy now that he’s in Steve’s bedroom, on Steve’s bed, with Steve looking at him like he can’t figure out _how_ to eat him just yet, but definitely wanting to.

Fuck, Bucky wants him to.

“What do you want?” Steve asks, his expression shifting momentarily. His voice is soft, vulnerable, but Bucky shivers anyway.

“You.” It’s easy and honest.

“That’s good.” Steve laughs, self-deprecating, and waves at the obvious way his pants are tented. “We’re on the same page, then.”

“Mhm. Same page, same team, same everything.” Bucky’s mouth waters slightly - and even though Steve said he wasn’t going to defile Bucky tonight, _fuck,_ he definitely wants him to. Soon.

“I just know that it’s been...a while for you,” Steve explains, and Bucky’s glad for the few feet of space between them while they talk about this. “And you said it was hard after...everything that happened. So, I want to know. What do you want us to do? What are you comfortable with?”

“I -” Bucky stops himself and thinks. He was hoping tonight would end up something like this - the heart-bearing and intense conversation aside - so he’s definitely _ready_ for anything, at least, physically. But - “Maybe just...I want to touch you.” He stands up and walks over slowly, and Steve’s frozen. It’s nice. Makes Bucky feel powerful. Wanted. “Want to see you.” He slides his hands up Steve’s chest, marveling at the muscle even through the shirt. “Want to make you come.”

Steve shivers this time, his eyes wide, and Bucky does a small, internal dance of victory that it’s his turn to make Steve melt.

“Is that okay with you?” Bucky asks, making himself look Steve in the eye, even though it’s a little hard to do at the moment.

“Fuck. Yes, yes it’s okay.” Steve kisses him again, soundly, but this time, his hands slip to Bucky’s shoulders, and Bucky winces, once. “Shit - did I-”

“You didn’t.” Bucky shakes his head and sighs. “I have … I was in an accident, and-” He can’t talk about that now, and he feels his erection deflating slightly at even the idea of talking about it, so he just summarizes. “Lots of scarring. It’s not pretty to look at, and I can leave my shirt on if you want, and-”

“If I want?” Steve tilts his head, brow furrowed in confusion. “No, Buck, it’s about what you’re comfortable with. Would you feel better with a shirt on?”

He squirms slightly, still embarrassed to even have to bring it up, but after everything with Brock, he -

Don’t think about him. Not here, not now.

“Maybe the first time,” Bucky admits, and Steve nods, still smiling.

“Do you want me to avoid touching your shoulder?” Steve asks, his fingers now trailing over the top of Bucky’s chest.

“No, it doesn’t bother me. I mean, don’t like...fuss over it when you see it.” He makes himself say _when,_ not _if,_ “But it really only hurts when I strain it, now. I don’t really do a lot of Arm Days at the gym as a result. Lots of cardio,” he jokes, but Steve doesn’t smile at it, only nods, looking like he’s cataloguing the information.

“Got it.”

They go back to kissing, and Bucky relaxes again, and when Steve’s hands drift to his belt, his hips twitch again, and his cock returns to its previous state of Almost Too Hard to Be Possible.

Bucky nods when Steve’s fingers trail over the belt buckle, and when his drift to Steve’s in a mirrored gesture, Steve nods as well.

The kissing stops for the time being while they pull the belts out of the way, laughing slightly at the mild awkwardness of it, but then they’re kissing again, and Bucky feels brave enough to pull Steve’s shirt from his pants. _Old man,_ he thinks fondly, and Steve smiles into the kiss as though he heard it.

Yeah. Definitely bashert.

He starts to unbutton Steve’s shirt, and Steve does the same when Bucky tells him it’s okay. Soon, they’re pushing the shirts off of shoulders, to the floor, and next is Steve’s undershirt - but not Bucky’s.

His jaw drops unwillingly when he sees Steve’s bare chest. Sure, he’s seen it before, but in a very different context: that night where Steve had shown up, broken in more than one way, from a bad fight, and had needed help to get into the shower. It’s definitely, definitely different now, when all Bucky can see is miles of golden skin, stretched over obscenely defined muscles.

It’s not even a six pack, Bucky thinks deliriously, his fingers trailing over Steve’s stomach, causing the muscles to jump. It’s an eight pack. A twelve pack. It’s the whole goddamned liquor store. The muscles that point into Steve’s pants look good enough to lick, so Bucky does that; he drops to his knees and licks one of them, causing Steve to keen and thread his fingers through Bucky’s hair.

“Sorry,” Bucky says, his fingers hooked in Steve’s waistband. “Poor impulse control.” Steve’s staring down at him, pupils blown, and Bucky can’t help but grin. “Is this okay?”

“Mhm.” Steve nods, quickly, his mouth slightly open after Bucky’s fingers dig a little further into the waistband. “But - maybe not right now? Wanna be able to touch you too, Buck.”

“Fair enough.” Bucky takes the liberty of unzipping Steve’s pants, running his palm along the - _ridiculously large_ \- outline of Steve’s cock while he stands. Steve’s fingers fumble slightly with the snap and zipper of Bucky’s pants, but then they’re falling off his hips, as the belt really was in place for function, not form.

Steve, conversely, has the ass of a greek god, and his pants stay firmly in place even while unzipped and hanging open. Bucky would tease him about it, but his mouth is busy after Steve dives in for another, ferocious, loving kiss, his tongue deep in Bucky’s mouth, his bare chest pressed against him, and was part of the serum _smelling like actual perfection_ because Bucky can’t think straight.

With an impatient tug, Bucky gets the pants down over the absolute peach of Steve’s ass, and he squeezes the muscle there for good measure, causing a moan to build in Steve’s throat, and his hips to surge forward in response. His boxer briefs are next, and Steve helps divest him of his own boxers, which join his pants in an ungraceful puddle around his feet. He steps out of it, and Steve does the same, and they’re standing face to face, Steve panting slightly.

Bucky can’t help it. He’s only human.

He looks down.

“Holy fuck,” he croaks, eyes widening. Steve’s cock is every bit as massive as hinted at by their previous heavy petting, and Thor’s boisterous endorsement. “Holy _fuck_.”

“Yeah.” Steve looks embarrassed, and when Bucky drags his eyes away from the nine or so inches of All-American Schlong, which is definitely almost as thick as Bucky’s forearm, he can see that sweet Steve is blushing, and that blush extends to the halfway point of his chest. Which is, to be fair, also incredibly hot.

“It’s a good holy fuck,” Bucky reassures him, taking a step forward. “Real good.”

“Oh. Good.” Steve laughs, but his breath catches in his throat when Bucky pushes up against him, their cocks bumping together for the first time. “ _Oh._ ”

“Mhm.” Bucky stands on his tiptoe in his effort to grind against him. “How can we-”

“I got some slick,” Steve blurts out, his cheeks turning even redder. Bucky raises his eyebrows with a smirk, and Steve’s fingers wrap around his hips, digging into the swell of his ass. “In the drawer. We can - on the bed -”

“Don’t gotta tell me twice.” Feeling more attractive than he has in years - it’s hard not to, with the way Steve’s cock is pressing incessantly up against him - Bucky turns and saunters to the bedside table, well aware that Steve’s staring at his -

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous.” Steve moves silently for a large person, and Bucky almost yelps when he straightens up from digging through the drawer, bottle of lube in his hands, and Steve’s right there, his cock now nestled up against Bucky’s ass. He whines slightly, and when Steve’s arm wraps around him, his hand coming to rest on his stomach, pushing him backwards, he grinds backwards against his hard cock without any kind of shame.

Steve groans and kisses Bucky’s neck, and his hand slides downwards while Bucky rocks back and forth against him. “May I?” He rumbles pleasantly in Bucky’s ear, and Bucky’s hips twitch involuntarily, as though trying to get closer to Steve’s hand.

“P-please,” he gasps, and Steve chuckles, sounding only half as wrecked as Bucky feels, but wrecked all the same, right before his hand wraps around Bucky’s cock and strokes him luxuriously.

Bucky’s eyes drift shut, and he lets himself just hang there for a moment, Steve’s arm around him, his other hand at his cock. His own fingers dig into Steve’s bare thighs, the firm muscle bracing as Bucky loses control. Steve continues to tug at his cock, and the bottle of lube slips from Bucky’s hand towards the carpet when Steve twists his hand at the head in a way that’s almost merciless.

“Careful, Buck,” Steve admonishes, bringing his hand away to catch the bottle before it can hit the floor; damn supersoldier reflexes.

Bucky spins and grabs Steve’s hand, hauling him towards the bed. They both fall backwards in a rush, trading sloppy, open-mouthed kisses with Steve hovering over Bucky, his strong arms holding up his weight away from Bucky, because he would _definitely_ crush him (not that Bucky would be averse to being crushed by Steve).

They rearrange themselves with some difficulty - given that they can’t stop kissing for more than five seconds - so that Steve can watch Bucky’s face, and Bucky can lie on his back and keep pressure off his shoulder. After pouring a healthy amount of lube out onto each other’s hand, Steve wraps his hand around Bucky’s cock, and Bucky reaches over to return the favor.

He learns quickly what Steve likes and doesn’t like so much - Steve seems to like _everything,_ but if Bucky twists his hand just right on the upstroke, Steve’s eyes squint shut a little and he makes a soft little “ _Unh,_ ” sound, in the back of his throat, and that alone makes Bucky’s cock throb in Steve’s hand.

“I love you,” Steve says, when the blush has become almost full-body against his fair skin, his breathing accelerating. Bucky isn’t as close to finishing, but he’s getting closer as he watches Steve start to fall apart - he twists in a way he’ll probably regret in the morning, judging by the way his shoulder screams in protest, but it’s worth it so he can cup Steve’s balls in his left hand, rolling his thumb softly around them. That certainly does the trick.

Steve’s head tilts back, and Bucky tries desperately to memorize it, the way his eyes squeeze shut, his mouth hanging open as the tendons in his neck stand out - Steve looks like a Renaissance painting, his chest stained red, his muscled legs flexing, his perfect body stretching in perfect tension, right before -

“ _Oh_.” All the breath leaves Steve at once as he comes, violently, painting over Bucky’s hand and his stomach, the strength of it sending ropes of white towards his chest. It’s the most beautiful thing Bucky’s ever seen, and he slows his stroke slightly and then releases him.

He smiles at Steve, whose hand has gone loose around Bucky’s somewhat neglected cock; but, when Bucky looks down, he’s … a little surprised to see that the flag is still at full-mast.

“Uh…”

Steve shrugs with a grin, looking flustered still, but also ornery. “Got a few more left in me.”

“Punk.” Bucky shakes his head, reaching for Steve’s cock again, more than interested in running some … experiments … but Steve knocks his hand out of the way.

“Your turn, babydoll,” he croons, flipping slightly so Bucky’s rolled all the way over on his back again, and Steve’s hovering over him. Either he doesn’t care that he’s covered in come, or he likes it, and Bucky doesn’t know, but both ideas are hot, and it’s also hot how Steve curves over him to resume sliding his hand up and down Bucky’s cock. “Let me take care of you.” He kisses his jaw, and his neck, and Bucky focuses on breathing, his eyes closing as the pleasure builds in the bottom of his gut.

“Steve,” he gasps a few minutes later, Steve’s lips under his ear, and he can feel him smile triumphantly against his skin. He comes, definitely less impressively than Steve, with a sigh of his own, and Steve watches his face this time, his eyes wondering and soft and cheeks still pink with pleasure.

“Gorgeous,” he says again, so quietly Bucky thinks he might be imagining it.

He’s out of breath though, his shirt clinging to him uncomfortably, sweaty and a little filthy, but he sinks back against Steve’s nice comforter (that probably needs to go out for dry cleaning, now, and he hysterically thinks for a second about how they’re going to explain this to JARVIS) and smiles dopily up at Steve.  

“That was nice,” he says, voice dreamily, and Steve chuckles, moving to kiss his neck and collarbone.

“ _Was_?” Steve grins up at him, his head resting on Bucky’s chest. “Take a few minutes, sweetheart, but I intend to do that again.”

“Is that so?” Bucky grins back, his nose wrinkling slightly from how big a smile it is.

“Yep.” Steve kisses him, right over his heart, and Bucky’s stomach flips again. “I can do this all night.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Bucky teases, grabbing Steve’s shoulder and trying to haul him up to his level. It’s useless, of course, because Bucky’s nowhere near as strong as Steve, but Steve comes anyway, laughing brightly, and his laughter only gets louder when Bucky says, “Is that why they said you were the _man with the plan_?”

“Don’t-”

Bucky starts to hum the theme song, and Steve giggles, unable to keep the stern face in place, switching to dig his fingers into Bucky’s sides again.

They tumble around the bed like that for several minutes, trading kisses and tickling each other lazily, legs tangling together while they wrestle half-heartedly, until Bucky pins Steve down with a triumphant grin.

Judging by his response, Steve’s more than okay with losing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sinful Sunday?
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> There will be more smut to come, but of course, the plot will have to return at some point....
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> (P.S. full disclosure, I'm not Jewish - but I think representation is important!! - and I wrote about bashert from previous conversations had with Jewish friends and my own research - as with any other aspect of Judaism/cultures and religions that are not my own, please feel free to let me know in comments that I messed something up/ need to change something!)


	12. Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve reflects on pieces of Bucky's past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Steve POV**
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> This chapter takes place around March 10th, 2016
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> WARNINGS FOR THE CHAPTER:
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>  **Car Crash** \- a deadly car accident is referenced, as well as the **death of loved ones** and **death of a child**
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> **Reference to canonical near-death experience, phrased as a suicidal**
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> Intense Angst in a flashback
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> But, we do get some important dialogue (as well as the dialogue I had in mind when I named this fic/chose its central theme!) and a little bit of smut at the end.
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> Also, note about formatting: Steve reflects on the events of the previous day - if something happened in the past, I used past tense verbs.

“How was rest of your celebration of the birth of the good Bucky, Steve?” Thor smiles at Steve who’s currently lying on his back, having been flipped onto his ass by a smirking Natasha.

“Good.” He pants a little bit, trying to work his way out from underneath her, and Nat senses the movement - she rotates quickly and pins his wrists with her small, strangely strong hands. “He liked your present.”

“Ah, excellent!” Thor claps his hands together and pays no mind to the pleading look Steve throws him.

“Thor, do you think you could-”

“Nuh-uh. No cheating, Cap.” Nat’s smirk deepens.

“I had picked out those texts some time ago, when I learned of your Bucky’s love for history. The history of my realm can be dense, but I know him to be of great intellect.”

“Not that great,” Sam interjects, sipping on a protein shake as he watches Nat twist with Steve, who ends up on his back, fake knife at his throat. “He’s dating Steve.”

“Ha, ha.” Steve barely has time to roll his eyes at Sam before Nat’s somehow rolling him over onto the mat, knife now between his shoulder blades. “God Almighty, Romanov. I yield.”

She tumbles away with a graceful toss of her hair, and Clint applauds from his place up in the rafters. Steve flicks him off, and is unsurprised a second later when a Nerf dart hits him square in the head. He shrugs off Sam’s good natured ribbing, and heads to the treadmills to run off some of his excess energy. 

As he dials up the speed on the Stark-approved supersoldier treadmill, he recalls the events of the previous night, mainly, the troubling events and admissions around Bucky’s birthday.

Namely: Bucky had a panic attack when the team sang Happy Birthday to him. Steve, who knows all too well what it’s like to not only want to avoid being the center of attention, but also actively loathe one’s birthday, had pulled Bucky away as soon as the cake was cut, and the Avengers had dispersed around the common area to eat their cake and mingle.

Privately, Steve thinks that they had read his own expression and body language, which had gone into protective overdrive when he sensed Bucky’s distress. Wanda had continued to shoot them worried looks as Steve quietly coached Bucky through some breathing exercises, his arm loose but supportive around his lower back - she and Bucky, and Pietro, had become something of a unit in the weeks following their meeting, and Steve wondered at the party if she’d also sensed how upset he’d been by the surprise. 

Later, Steve had nosed Bucky’s hairline as the elevator ascended to his floor (Bucky had stubbornly, flat-out refused to leave the party before an hour was up, even though his hands shook and his smile remained tight for the entire time), and kissed his cheek and jaw. 

“Scratchy,” Bucky said at the time, pushing Steve away without really pushing.

“You like it.”

“I really do.” Bucky huffed for a second before eyeing Steve. “...You can ask.”

“I don’t want to ask.” The doors opened out onto the floor, but Steve hadn’t moved right away. “Not about somethin’ you don’t want to talk about.”

“I want you to know.” Bucky walked away first his hands clenching and unclenching into fists. Steve grabbed one of them and kissed his knuckles individually, smoothing his fist out bit by bit. Bucky sighed and cupped his cheek, his nails scratching against his full beard, which had been grown out for a stealth mission within the last three days, and Bucky had expressed a  _ keen  _ interest in. Steve wasn’t really into denying Bucky things he had keen interests in, so the beard stayed.

“What happened, sweetheart?”

Bucky cleared his throat and stared out the darkened windows; he’d essentially moved into the Tower at this point, staying all weekend, and most weeknights, even though it made his commute hell (although, a little less hellish than it could be, given that Tony had volunteered a fleet of cars to be used at Steve and Bucky’s discretion, to “keep the Buckaroo safe”).

“You really don’t know?” The question had caught Steve off guard in the moment.

“I know you’re upset.” Steve sat down at his counter and frowned, but Bucky didn’t turn around to look at him, his profile rigid, one hand grasping the opposite elbow. Defensive posture. “And I know it has something to do with your birthday.”

“It’s stupid.” Bucky shook his head. “I mean. It’s not stupid. It just feels silly.”

“If it’s upsetting you, it can’t be silly,” Steve said gently, and Bucky hadn’t made any sign that he had heard him.

“Ten years ago,” Bucky started, pausing for a long moment, before he hung his head and stared at the floor beneath his feet, “My parents took us upstate, around my birthday. I’d been begging to go to a Revolutionary War memorial. Stupid. I know.”

“Not stupid,” Steve whispered, something terrible and heavy tugging at his gut. Bucky hadn’t looked up. “Not stupid at all.”

“We were in the car.” His right shoulder rose, fell. “Becca wouldn’t stop going on and on about this new album, how my dad just had to play it, couldn’t he play it?”

“Becca?”

“My sister.” Bucky froze then, before a tremor passed through his body. “F-fuck. You’re - you’re my - partner and - and you don’t even know my baby sister’s name.” Bucky sobbed, brokenly, suddenly, almost folding in half. Steve knocked the stool over when he rushed over to hold him.

“Sit down, Buck,” he whispered. “Please, baby, sit down--”

He’d managed to guide him to the sofa, but Bucky hadn’t curled up into Steve’s chest like he typically did when he was feeling low or anxious. Instead, he faced out towards the windows again, posture straight, jaw tight, voice steady again, even as tears coursed down his cheeks. 

“Beccs was twelve.” Bucky shook his head. “I shouldn’t have gotten mad. But she smacked me, in the arm, so I smacked her back. Not hard. Just. Sibling shit, y’know?”

Steve didn’t know -- he’d grown up alone, his father dead when his mother was still pregnant with him. Sarah Rogers had never remarried, and she’d been buried in a pauper’s grave, straight out of quarantine, when he was 16 years old.

Bucky didn’t need him to respond though. It wasn’t about that.

His entire body shook as he managed the rest. “My dad turned around to tell us to knock it off. Not mad, even. Just...his dad voice, I guess. Becca poked me while he was trying to glare, and I laughed, and that’s when it happened. 

“The truck had just...drifted. Just for a few seconds. The guy had been driving for fourteen hours straight. It came up in the lawsuit, that his company had pushed the guy too hard, and he’d fallen asleep.”

“Buck.” Steve had reached out then, to put his hand on Bucky’s back. Bucky was trembling hard enough that Steve’s arm moved with it. Bucky didn’t look over at him, just squeezed his hands together and stared at the windows. 

“My mom and dad died on impact. A mercy, the doctors said. I got pinned. It’s how my shoulder got…” Bucky had made an aborted gesture towards his left shoulder but didn’t stop for long. “I kept waking up and blacking back out. I remember the gas spilling across the highway, towards the forest line. Remember thinking about groundwater. What a weird fucking thing to think about.

“Becca, she uh…” He’d trailed off, and Steve had pushed his hand a little more firmly into his back, trying to telegraph support through it. “I had to listen to her last words. Or word, I guess. My name. My real name. She thought I was dying.” He’d dragged his hands through his hair before resting his elbows on his knees, which bounced up and down fitfully. “She - she was trapped, next to me, and all she could think about was me. Becca was good like that. She - sh-she.” His head hung down, almost to his knees, as he whispered, “I should have died. Not her.”

“Don’t say that.” Steve lurched forward, fully incapable of keeping still a moment longer. “Fuck, sweetheart.” He wrapped his arms around him, and Bucky had sobbed in earnest, shaking horribly. He quieted though, eventually, other than an occasional sniffle, and Steve held him tight the whole time, his nose pressed against the long, dark waves of Bucky’s hair. 

“How long you been carryin’ that on your own?” Exhaustion and grief made Steve’s accent truer than normal. “How long, sweetheart?”

Bucky had shaken his head and fisted his hand in Steve’s shirt, but that was the only response Steve got to the question.  _ Too long,  _ had gone unspoken. It hadn’t needed to be spoken. It just was.

Then, Bucky had mumbled something, too low and messy for even Steve’s improved hearing to pick up on. “What was that?”

“I said.” Bucky sat up, still leaning into Steve’s side, his head lolling slightly on his shoulder. “At least you know why I’m such a fuck-up, now.”

“Bucky Barnes.” Steve gripped Bucky by his right shoulder and looked him in the face. “I know that’s not you saying that, so I won’t get mad, but I gotta say. That’s my best guy you’re talkin’ about. I’m kinda crazy about him, so I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t talk so much shit about him.” It got Bucky to smile, at least, even a half smile. “There we go.” Steve kissed his forehead lightly, and Bucky’s hand had almost spasmed where it held Steve’s shirt.

“Doesn’t it bother you, though?” Bucky had studied Steve’s face when all he did was quirk his eyebrows in confusion. “That I’m so anxious? That...that I’m such a mess?”

“Does it bother you that I’m a mess?” Steve had countered, too contrarian even here in 2016. 

“You aren’t a -”

“I’m depressed,” Steve pointed out, something he’d never really said out loud to anyone besides Sam and his therapist. “Severely. I … I tried to kill myself in 1945, and not really for any suicidal reason, just stupid heroism, but I’ve been learning more and more that throwing my body at problems like my life doesn’t matter isn’t exactly healthy.”

Bucky had snorted, then. “No shit, Sherlock.”

“Yeah, yeah.” They leaned their foreheads against each other for a moment before Steve continued. “I’m a hundred years old, trapped in a body that might always be like this,” Steve gestured downwards, “One of the loves of my life had aged 70 years when I got out of the ice. She couldn’t remember me, and I had to watch her die anyway.”

It’d gotten him a soft kiss on the cheek, but Steve had just shrugged; this wasn’t about comforting Steve, it was to try and remind Bucky that they were in this together, that there  _ was  _ no imbalance between them, no matter how hard Bucky might try and imagine one. 

“Sometimes, the worst scars can’t be seen.”  Very deliberately, he had turned his body as he spoke and rested his hand on the upper bicep of Bucky’s left arm; to Bucky’s intense credit, he hadn’t so much as flinched. “But they’re still there. You make me feel better about my scars, even when I’m trying to tell the world, and myself, that they don’t even exist. You’ve always made me feel better. And I can’t regret a single moment with you, Buck. No matter what your scars are, or where they’re from.”

“I love you.” Bucky’s tears had resumed at that point, which had only been fair, given that Steve’s eyes weren’t exactly dry. “You stupid -c’mere.” Their kiss had been messy and brief, but powerful enough that it would have knocked Steve onto his supersoldier ass if he’d been standing.

“I feel the same way about you, you know,” Bucky had whispered when they’d leaned back against the back of the couch, wrapped up in each other, Bucky’s legs draped over Steve’s lap. Bucky had been tracing the bump in Steve’s nose over and over again, until Steve took his hand and gently kissed his fingertips. “It’s scary. Been a long time since I … depended on anyone. But I do. You’re…” He’d shrugged, embarrassed.

“That means so much to me, Buck. And anything I can do, any way I can help-”

Bucky shook his head, quickly. “No. Don’t turn this into another thing you martyr yourself over.” Briefly, Steve had rankled, but the expression Bucky shot him had been too full of fondness and affection for him to complain too much. “You don’t always have to fix things, you know.”

“I know.” A difficult admission.

“You being here..that’s help enough. It is.”

“I want to be there for you for all of it. Until the end,” Steve whispered, the depth of the promise not escaping him. Something in Bucky’s expression twitched, and Steve had made a questioning noise in response. 

His sweetheart’s face had turned up in a smile, a shy but powerful one. “Nothing, it’s just...my grandparents, they took me in after the … accident, and they used to say something like that to each other.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve propped his chin up on his hand, his beard scratching his own fingers (and how could Bucky find that endearing, or even alluring?). He tried very hard at the time to not think about how Bucky’s grandparents were probably much closer in age to himself, if not younger. 

“Yeah. Apparently they couldn’t afford a real date when they met, seeing as how it was ‘39, and Zayde was poor as fuck. So, he took Bubbe from the start to the end of the line in Brooklyn, and they pretended they did something at each stop, based on what they could see from the window. It became their thing - with each other until the end of the line.” Bucky blushed slightly, and Steve stared at him in wonder, his heart throbbing slightly at yet another small glimpse into Bucky’s past, his identity. “They got married a week later, and were together until Zayde died in 2010. Bubbe died less than a year later.”

Steve could  _ hear  _ the loneliness in it. It meant that Bucky really was alone in the world, alone, and scared, and hurting. He’d never been so glad for the exhibit at the American History Museum - something that had once bothered him, to know that his life was on display, but now something he was going to be forever grateful for, if only because it brought him into Bucky’s life.

“I like that sound of that,” Steve had whispered, praying to the God he’d still hadn’t forgiven that Bucky couldn’t quite hear the longing in the statement, the unbridled wanting.

Judging by Bucky’s smile though, he’d caught it just fine.

Back in the present, five miles and sixteen minutes into Steve’s reverie, he hears cheering from the western quadrant of the training floor. He hits the stop button the treadmill, slowing to halt, and snags a towel on the way out of the cardio center.

The noise seems to be coming from the shooting range, which Tony updates now and then by adding additional training courses to. Of course, Nat and Clint, the resident snipers on the team, have a long-running competition to see who can get the fastest time in the various scenarios Tony and JARVIS have rigged for them.

Oddly enough, they’re both standing on the edge of the course, eyes fixed to the scoreboard; Nat’s face is unreadable, but Clint looks horrified, mouth wide open.

“Sam taking a whack at it today?” Steve guesses. 

“Sam most certainly is not.” His friend appears at his shoulder and shoves him playfully. “You didn’t say he was … you know.”

“I know?” Steve frowns and watches the circuit’s end, where whoever’s in the sim has to clear six targets around three different corners.

Bucky comes running through, face oddly stiller than he’s ever seen, a fake rifle in his hands. He aims, fires, looking more like poetry than any person has a right to, ducking behind one corner, only to fire and somehow hit multiple targets at once, and with another readjustment, he fires one last time- and the scoreboard lights up as the targets fall. 

[ _ A new record for the course, Mr. Barnes _ ] JARVIS supplies. 

“You’re kidding me!” Clint screeches, jumping up and down and tapping Nat’s shoulder. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me!”

“Buck?” Steve’s mouth is hanging open, but it goes unnoticed as Bruce jumps around Bucky excitedly, poking at the rifle and at Bucky’s hands.

“That shouldn’t have been physically possible,” Dr. Banner marvels.

“Have you seen  _ Wanted _ ?” Sam asks, striding forward with a big grin on his face. “Because-”

“-That was some serious bullshit!” Clint’s still hopping around, screeching, “Complete and totally-”

“-Amazing, really, what you can do, I had no idea-”

“-Angelina Jolie musta learned how to shoot from you, man, I swear-”

“-to  _ God  _ there will be a rematch, as soon as you can-”

“Stop by the lab, and maybe we can do some ballistics tests, give you a gun that can really do something-”

Bucky’s looking overwhelmed then, so Steve cleans his throat and unleashes his full Captain voice. “That’s enough! Stand down.” They all scatter backwards, except Natasha, who’s still studying Bucky with an expression of almost terrifying interest and calculation. Steve knows that look. He doesn’t like that look. 

He has a feeling this is what she tried to tell him about last month, about the odd set of skills in Bucky’s past. 

He wonders if she was warning him that SHIELD might be interested in Bucky after all; the thought makes him feel sick, so he pushes it away for the time being. SHIELD already owns him. It isn’t allowed to own Bucky, too.

“What the fuck?” Clint repeats as they pass him, and Bucky shrugs with one shoulder. 

“I always was a good shot.” He gives Clint a shit-eating grin, and he chucks the rifle at Hawkeye, the previous record-holder for the course, with a devil-may-care attitude that sets Steve’s blood on fire even as Clint scrambles to catch it.

But, he controls himself, one arm wrapped around Bucky’s shoulders as they meander towards the elevators.

***

And, if Steve’s hands are a little more desperate than usual, up in the privacy of his rooms, if he presses Bucky into the bed with a little more neediness, if he sobs Bucky’s name a little harder with his cock between his thighs, fucking between them senselessly with Bucky’s cock tight in his hand, his back supported by Steve’s chest as he moans and comes all over his own stomach, then -

That’s nobody’s business. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!!!!
> 
>  
> 
> Expect the next updates towards the end to come quickly, and be shorter than earlier chapters.
> 
> A lot of the action is about to happen, so the POV will cut between Steve and Bucky much faster, and sometimes they'll have simultaneous POVs.
> 
> A lot of angst coming up, and a lot of violence - to quote Dr. Strange, "We're in the endgame now."
> 
> I anticipate about 20 chapters total for this fic, with one smutty, lovely, HEA epilogue chapter where we see Steve fully put to use his beard and his love of command and his love of Bucky, all together


	13. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve take another step forward in their relationship; Steve goes on a mission and leaves Bucky behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Bucky POV**
> 
> This chapter starts with smut, and ends with Bucky out on his own in the city. Like I said at the end of the last chapter, expect the next few chapters to be shorter, and updated faster, as we near the end of the fic.
> 
>  
> 
> **Warnings**
> 
> Consensual smut!!! Oral, light anal play, multiple orgasms
> 
> Continued discussion of the aftermath of a catastrophic car accident

 

Bucky breathes in through his nose, and out through his mouth, as calmly as he can.

It’s been a week since his birthday, since he spilled his life story to Steve, and Steve’s been nothing but kind and soft and patient with him. Bucky’s spent so much time since everything fell apart with Rumlow trying to hold everything together; now, Steve’s offering to help shoulder the burden, not in words, but in his persistent, gentle presence and the respect and compassion he’s shown Bucky in the last few weeks. And, honestly, Bucky … wants that. He wants that partnership, sharing the burden with each other, Steve supporting Bucky, and vice versa.

Until the end of the line.

His acceptance of Steve’s goodness is being counteracted by one major problem: The ghost of Brock Rumlow still haunts the edges of Bucky’s vision sometimes, when he’s walking home from work and looks up at the rooftops the way Zayde taught him, or when he heads to the gym on Saturday mornings. But, there’s one place the haunting can’t follow:

Bucky takes another, shuddering breath and blinks up at the ceiling of Steve’s bedroom, cheeks heating at the soft, wet sounds of Steve spreading him open.

“ _ Agh- _ ” Bucky arches off the bed suddenly, fingers scrambling on the comforter, as something warm and not-quite-hard unfurls around his asshole.

“You d-don’t have to do that,” he pants, writhing against the sheets messily.

“Sure I don’t.” Steve looks up, his face redder than a fire engine before he dives back in, strong fingers gripping the globe of Bucky’s ass as he steadily licks against him. He comes up for air right around the time that Bucky’s about to start crying from how good it feels, and he presses a few kisses into Bucky’s trembling thigh as his fingers grope blindly across the sheets for the abandoned bottle of lube. “Still sure about this, babydoll?”

“Mhm.” Bucky nods, his eyes closing, and he can hear the bottle open. A few slick sounds later, and Steve’s fingers are back, but running over the hot, wet mess his mouth left behind, pushing into Bucky here and there. It isn’t intrusive or stressful in anyway, and Bucky relaxes more; just enough that Steve manages to get one, blunt finger inside his ass.

“Fuck-”

“So.” Steve returns to running his open, hot mouth open and down Bucky’s leg. “How was your week, sweetheart?”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s the idea.”

Bucky laughs for a second before Steve’s finger reaches all the way in, his damn, long, artist’s fingers, and rubs up against his prostate like he’s got a goddamn homing beacon on it. “ _ Fuck _ !”

“Did you get those tests graded?”

“You’re a holy terror, Rogers.”

“That’s what I’m told.” Another finger works its way into Bucky’s ass, and Steve releases a shaky breath, the first sign that he’s at all affected by this, other than his telltale blush. “Fuck, sweetheart, you’re so tight.”

Bucky makes an incoherent noise, his limbs convulsing slightly when Steve almost viciously rocks the pads of his fingers up, twisting them just so. It’s driving him wild, but judging by the increasing accent in Steve’s typically controlled voice, he’s not the only one.

“Fuck, look’t you, so fuckin’ gorgeous,” Steve drawls, eyes heavy and lips parted as he fucks Bucky slowly with his fingers. “God, sweetheart, you were made for this, weren’t you?”

“Mmmgh-” Bucky gets out intelligently, the fingers of his right hand tangling in Steve’s hair for a moment, dragging the blond strands upward. 

“Could do this all day, just get you wet and loose and sloppy for me, might not even put my cock in you, wanna see how many times you can come for me just like this.”

“The  _ mouth  _ on you-”

“You want my mouth on you?” Steve asks cheekily, and Bucky wants to roll his eyes, he really does, but his body betrays him and he shudders instead. Steve’s eyes grow heavier. “God, I want it too, wanna suck you, babydoll, wanna get my mouth on your pretty cock, you’re so good for me--” Somewhere amongst Bucky’s incomprehensible keening, Steve hears the consent, and he leans forward and takes Bucky into his mouth with little to no problem.

Steve Rogers, who has never backed down from a challenge in his life, sucks dick like a champ, Bucky thinks wondrously as he watches Steve’s lips wrap obscenely around his cock. Then, all too quickly, his brain whites out from a combination of the sight of Steve, Steve’s mouth, and Steve’s fingers buried in his ass, and he isn’t sure  _ what  _ he says, but he does hear Steve muttering, “Same for me babydoll, it’s the goddamn same for me,” when he comes down from it.

His dick twitches with interest even after Steve’s wrung the orgasm out of him, and Steve smirks, reaching for it again, his fingers still inside Bucky, but Bucky frowns and shakes his head. “Up here,” he demands, but it sounds like more of a whine. “Wanna kiss you.”

Steve slowly retracts his fingers from his ass, and Bucky doesn’t hiss the way he wants to, because yeah, Steve was gentle as all hell, he’s never been treated that soft in any sexual encounter before, but it’s been a while, and it’ll take some getting used to before Bucky’s back to his undergrad status as the king of the bottoms.

The kiss is sloppy, and at first, Steve tries to apologize for the taste of cock in his mouth, but Bucky brushes it aside with a snort before tangling his arms around Steve’s neck and pulling him in closer. 

“I love you,” he mutters, grinding his hips somewhat effectively against Steve’s cock. “Love you so much.”

Steve hums happily, whispering the words back, and he settles back against the pillows at Bucky’s urging.

“Now, you’re pretty good at what you do, Captain Rogers,” Bucky smarms on his way down Steve’s unreal chest. He presses kisses into every nook and cranny of the muscles in his chest and stomach, and Steve jumps a little bit when he nears his ribcage. “But.” He looks up with a smirk, his hands wrapped around Steve’s hips. “I think I might be able to teach you a thing or two, as a 21st century boy.”

“Is that so?” Steve snorts and looks at him so fondly, Bucky’s teeth ache from it. “Gonna put your money where your mouth is, Buck?”

“So corny,” Bucky scolds, shaking his head in mock-outrage. Steve grins back at him, and Bucky takes full advantage of the distraction, diving down to swallow Steve to the root. Steve’s hips jerk upright as he shouts. Bucky doesn’t stop, not even when he slightly gags around the supersoldier dick poking him in the back of his throat, just closes his eyes to hide how hard he rolls them, wraps his own lube-stained hand around the parts of Steve’s cock he can’t realistically suck for an extended period of time, and gets to work.

Steve’s babbling in seconds, patting Bucky’s hair and shoulders with whispered endearments and praises that burn like embers in Bucky’s stomach. He feels himself getting hard even though it’s been less than ten minutes since he came all over Steve’s hand and sheets, and he starts to grow uncomfortably warm.

It might have something to do with the fact that he’s cradled between Steve’s massive, muscular thighs, his body heat radiating out as Steve gets closer and closer to orgasm. With a stuttered gasp, Steve taps desperately on Bucky’s right shoulder, a sweet, thoughtful reminder that Bucky doesn’t need; he swallows every Steve gives him a few seconds later as Steve runs through enough curse words to make George Carlin blush, and Bucky laughs slightly as he pulls of Steve’s still hard cock, wiping his mouth.

“Language,” he admonishes, which earns him a scowl from his boyfriend.

“Fuck you,” Steve says without any heat, dropping his head back on the pillows, one hand tapping listlessly on his bright red chest. Bucky watches Steve’s pulse jump in his upper abdomen and shakes his head.

“Just did. And, I’d like to do it again.”

“You don’t hafta -” Steve shifts nervously. “I can take care of it, Buck, don’t feel like you gotta keep up with my stupid body chemistry--”

“I want to,” Bucky assures him, stroking his hands up and down Steve’s spread open thighs. Steve’s entirely bare in front of him, and Bucky’s still wearing his undershirt; the sweat is dripping from the base of his skull, down his spine uncomfortably, and the room isn’t getting any cooler, not with the sexy blond furnace lying in front of him. “Just…”

Before he can think better of it, he sighs and kneels upright awkwardly. “Don’t make a big deal out of it, okay?” He pulls the shirt off quickly and chucks it off the bed, his arm curling almost instinctively in front of his body.

There’s not much he can do with the scars mangling his left shoulder, red and twisted and angry even a decade after the crash. Bucky wants to jump off the bed and grab his shirt, and then go back to sucking Steve’s dick until Steve can’t remember that his boyfriend’s body looks like  _ this  _ -

But, this is Steve. And Steve’s never done anything to Bucky that would suggest he’d reject him for this. Steve. Steve Rogers, who he loves. Who he trusts. Steve isn’t  _ him,  _ would never hurt Bucky, or mock him, or make him -

Bucky looks up, shyly, through his lashes, and flinches at first to see that Steve’s eyes are locked on him. His heart settles in his chest though when he sees that Steve’s eyes aren’t lingering on his shoulder.

He’s staring for a different reason.

“Fuck.” Steve’s hand twitches against his chest, and he moves as though he wants to get up, to curl towards Bucky and distract him from his mission.

Bucky smiles softly though, pleased, ears burning with it, that Steve doesn’t think he looks repulsive. He puts his weight on his right hand when he leans forward and wraps his left hand around Steve’s cock, and he finishes what he started.

It takes even less the second time around to get Steve to come, and this time Bucky pulls off right before he does, so he can watch Steve paint his chest and abdomen, as well as Bucky’s hand, with thick white ropes that spread across his flawless skin like abstract art.

“I love you.” Steve tugs on his right arm, somewhat boneless and voice creaky. “C’mere,  _ please,  _  wanna hold you.”

He gets pulled into a tight hug, his head resting on Steve’s chest as kisses rain down on his hair. Steve’s hands indiscriminately stroke up and down Bucky’s left arm, never lingering on the cluster of scarring, but not avoiding it either, and Bucky closes his eyes tightly against the tears that spring forward with no other warning.

It’s the first time their bodies have lined up like this, totally bare, and warm and real, and Bucky luxuriates in it like sunshine. He knows, at some point, questions will come, but for right now, Steve’s holding him, and he’s safe, so he lets himself drift for a little while.

The questions come the next morning, after they showered and cuddled in bed together for a whole night, and Bucky playfully endured Steve’s absurd snoring (that he complains about in the daytime, but when he sleeps alone, he’s starting to find it more and more difficult to fall asleep without the sound of cutting logs in his ear). 

Steve’s eyes drift to the scars, but not in a disgusted or pitying way; it’s assessing.

“How did you hold the gun last week, if …” He gets halfway through the question, but Bucky shrugs.

“My grandfather was a sniper for the US Army. He and my grandmother took me back to Indiana with them when I was cleared from the hospital, and he’d take me shooting, every day, after I refused to get out of bed for a month straight. Said I needed something familiar. Needed to remind myself that I could have parts of my past without punishing myself.”

“Do you enjoy it?” Steve’s brow is furrowed, and Bucky slips a finger into the crease that forms, smoothing it out gently. Steve catches his wrist and kisses the pad of his finger. “Shooting, that is.”

“I don’t dislike it.” These aren’t the questions Bucky had been anticipating, but they’re weirdly having the effect of making him want to tell more than what Steve’s asking for. “I just couldn’t compete with it anymore.”

“Why?” Their legs are tangled together, the blanket hauled up to their waists, and Steve returns to drifting the backs of his fingers up and down Bucky’s arm. It would almost be soothing enough for him to fall asleep again, but the painful memories they’re discussing keep Bucky on edge.

“The hospital I was taken to … they were running … trials.”

“What?” Steve stiffens, and Bucky winces - of course Steve would be sensitive to this part of Bucky’s past. It’s a large reason why he hasn’t shared it with him, other than the simple fact that he doesn’t like to think about it either.

“Experimental, and voluntary. I wasn’t regaining feeling in my left arm, and I was just generally… a wreck, after. My grandparents accepted the doctor’s offer, and they injected me with  _ something. _ Something classified, into the dead tissue. Didn’t make it any prettier, and it’s still painful sometimes, and hard to use, but…” Bucky lifts his left arm and waggles his fingers to demonstrate. “Perfectly useful. And, weirdly enough, I shot better  _ after  _ the accident, once Zayde pulled me from my pity party and took me out to the range.”

Steve’s brain is working a mile a minute, Bucky can tell, but he kisses his chin and his cheeks, relishing the scratch of Steve’s beard - that he’s  _ kept,  _ he listened to Bucky’s embarrassing confession that he found the beard hot, and he  _ kept it for him  _ \- and it gets him to blink and smile. 

“So, yeah. Whatever they put in my body, it wasn’t FDA approved, or whatever, so I couldn’t pass blood tests anymore. I’m sure it’s all in my file.” He says the last part so breezily, so obviously intending it as a joke, that he’s legitimately surprised when Steve stiffens like he’s been slapped.

“I didn’t read your file,” Steve croaks, eyes wide and imploring. “Shit, Buck, I swear, I refused to let them tell me what was in the file, and-”

“Whoa.” Bucky’s own eyes are wide, his heart uncomfortably picking up speed. “I was...kidding. I didn’t actually think there was a file…”

“Nat put it together.” Steve wilts and sighs, ducking his head. “She’s … like that. If it’s any consolation, I think she had to research, a lot.”

“Still. She had her work cut out for her.”

“What do you mean?”

Bucky shrugs, frowning slightly as he traces a random pattern on Steve’s golden pectoral. “The hospital that fixed me. It burned down in 2008, about ten months after I was released. Total freak accident; they were never able to tell what caused the fire.”

Later, he wouldn’t be able to recall what they talked about after that, what lazy topic of conversation they switched to as they continued to lie in bed, trading kisses and remaining in each other’s arms until Steve’s stomach rumbled so loudly JARVIS had to ask if the sirs wanted something to eat -- but, he would able to recall the way Steve’s body didn’t relax in quite the same way for the rest of the morning, or afternoon.

***

Steve’s called away on Important Save the World Business a week after that, and most of the Avengers go with him. He kisses Bucky senseless before he leaves, holding him close and breathing out promises to return as soon as he can while Wilson and Barton catcall from the quinjet.

Then, he strides towards the ramp without looking back, his shield strapped to his body, and Bucky’s hands twist together anxiously as the quinjet lifts and takes the man he loves away from him, hurtling towards unknown dangers that Bucky can’t protect him from.

As if Bucky could protect anyone from anything.

He stares up at the sky they vanished into long after they disappear, and Wanda’s the one who tugs on his sleeve and pulls him away, towards the common area, where she and Pietro have set up a Netflix marathon of Friends, which they’ve never seen before.

They pause the show after a while just to talk about Romania and what they remember of their home before it was taken from them, and Pietro vibrates so quickly at one point, Bucky swears he turns invisible, but Wanda keeps her hand steady on her twin’s shoulder, and he settles down.

They return to their marathon, and Wanda falls asleep, leaving Pietro and Bucky to work their way through season 3, or, as Pietro calls it, the “Suddenly, Ross Sucks” season.

“He always sucked,” Bucky corrects tilting his head to the back of the couch, intending to take a nap of his own.

Then, Pietro’s stomach rumbles. Audibly.

“Do you need some food, dude?” Bucky squints at him, and Pietro shifts guiltily. They’d eaten the leftover sandwiches from the team dinner less than two hours ago, and Bucky’s still full. He also can’t run fast enough to break the sound barrier, and as though to underscore his thoughts, Pietro’s stomach rumbles again.

“We might have more leftovers.” Bucky stands to grab them, and Wanda shifts with a small sniff. Pietro’s face grows more guilty. “You … ate those too?”

In answer, Pietro lifts the pillow next to him on his seat and reveals a pile of take out containers.

“When did you even take those out of the fridge?” Bucky asks aghast. As much as he likes Pietro, he’s suddenly very, very glad he isn’t his student. 

“A few minutes ago. You closed your eyes,” Pietro doesn’t look nearly as sheepish as he should. “Didn’t … notice me.”

“Ugh.” Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose. “I guess we can order something.”

“Weeeelllll.” Bucky works with teenagers for a living. Bucky knows that face. Pietro wants something. “There’s this one amazing pizza place about ten blocks from here?”

“Okay, great, what’s the phone number?” Bucky pulls out his StarkTech phone, a birthday gift from the man himself (and he’d only fangirled for a few minutes afterwards, no matter what Steve claims), but Pietro coughs slightly.

“They don’t do delivery.”

“We live in Stark Tower, I thought everyone delivered to us,” Bucky points out, his neck and cheeks only heating up slightly from the way he included himself in the figure of people who live in the Tower. But, it’s been a few weeks since he really stayed at his own place, and he’s watching the twins while the team is away, so it’s not that much of a stretch, logically, even as the more broken parts of his brain scream that this is all an illusion, and the team doesn’t actually  _ want  _ him in their home, and -

“Tony pissed the owner off.”

“Of course he did.” Bucky sighs and glares at Pietro. “So, how are we going to get the pizza here?”

“I can run and get it!”

“Nuh-uh, no way.” Bucky scowls. “Steve grounded you.”

“Oh, come onnnnn, that was a week ago!”

“He grounded you for  _ two _ weeks!”

“Fine. Send Wanda!” 

The Maximoff in question gave a soft snore on the couch, as though halfway aware that the two were talking about her. Bucky shook his head and put his finger to his lips, demonstratively lowering his voice the next time he spoke.

“She hardly ever gets sleep. We shouldn’t wake her up because you have a pizza craving.”

“It’s not a craving. I’m  _ dying _ .” Pietro even holds his stomach for dramatic effect, pairing it with the saddest puppy eyes Bucky’s seen since his little sister wanted to take his old iPod to sleepaway camp.

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” Bucky doesn’t negotiate in his own classroom, but his relationship with Pietro and Wanda is different, and he  _ is  _ watching them, and that  _ does  _ include feeding them. And also, pizza sounds amazing, no matter how full Bucky still is from dinner. 

He’s about to walk ten blocks, he’ll have earned a few slices.

Pietro shakes his head, eyes still sad and wide and irresistible, and Bucky grumbles for a few seconds, before:

“What kind?”

***

Bucky shoves his hands in his pockets after he double checks the address and final few instructions for his walk on Stark Maps. He’s only a few minutes out from the pizza place that Pietro’s obsessed with, the good one with the kosher cheese and the apparently amazing crust. It’s strangely cold for late March, and he regrets not stealing - borrowing - Steve’s jacket, the one that smells like leather and sex dreams, from his floor. 

The back of his neck prickles uncomfortably, and he looks over his shoulder; he can see a group of college kids walking in the opposite direction, laughing loudly as they head towards a bar at the end of the street. It’s a well-lit neighborhood, and the Tower glows in the distance, four blocks over, and six blocks up from his destination. He shrugs, chalking it up to nerves, and keeps walking.

When he crosses the final street, the pizza place in sight, Open sign glowing, his neck prickles again.

Bucky stops walking this time, turning and looking in every direction, including up on the rooftops.

Nothing.

His mind’s playing tricks on him again; after all, Tony’s surveillance has never caught any sign of a ghost in midtown, and it really hasn’t caught any sign of Rumlow in weeks. His brain’s just overexcited, a combination of Steve being gone on a dangerous mission for the last eight hours, and his own base-level anxiety.

Bucky slips into the pizza place and grabs the order he’d phoned in on the walk over; he throws in a couple slices of cheese pizza in case the two pies don’t satisfy the speedy teenager waiting for his midnight feast. 

“Have a great night,” he says to the cashier with a smile. She smiles back, albeit tiredly, and returns to cleaning down the tabletops in the restaurant.

He walks quickly towards the Tower, making decent time, telling himself he’s walking fast if only because he doesn’t want the pizza to get cold.  _ Why didn’t he just take an Uber _ ?

It’s not too late, technically, and he can afford it - it’ll help him with the weird buzzing at the base of his skull, like his brain’s trying to tell him to piece something nonexistent together. 

His phone rings, suddenly, as he turns down a deserted block, and Bucky curses vividly, almost dropping the pizza. 

“Shit, shit, shitty mcfucking -” He fumbles in his coat pocket for the phone, resting the pizza boxes on his hip.

[ _ Incoming Call from: Steve Rogers _ ] the display reads. Bucky stops walking again, this time with a dopey smile on his face, and pops the phone next to his ear.

“Hello?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter, "Enemies" is Steve's POV from the mission, and it takes place concurrently with this chapter, from the time Steve leaves Bucky to the time Bucky gets the phone call. 
> 
>  
> 
> .......I'd love to hear some predictions/thoughts/etc.
> 
>  
> 
> (the next few chapters are much shorter than previous ones .... if only to avoid too many cliffhangers...)


	14. Enemies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve heads out on a mission with his team, and encounters a strangely familiar face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve POV  
> ***This chapter takes place around the exact same time as Chapter 13, just on Steve's side of things***
> 
>  **Warnings**  
>  So much drama and violence in this chapter.
> 
> Comic book style violence
> 
> References to past abuse
> 
> Sexually degrading comment made about a main character by another
> 
> Mention of a character vomiting
> 
> ...Unresolved chapter ending.
> 
> Did I mention angst?

“You can’t miss him already.”

Steve looks up from his phone screen, leg bouncing anxiously, to see Tony smirking at him. He shrugs, quickly, his shoulders crowding in on his ears again as he tries to make himself feel smaller, if only because he feels moderately calmer when he does.

Tony’s expression softens, and he sinks into the seat next to Steve with a groan; the quinjet cuts through the sky silently, and judging by the trajectory that Steve can follow, they’re somewhere over the European continent by now.

“I miss Pep, too.” Tony fiddles with the socket wrench in his hands, but what he’s fixing on this quinjet is beyond Steve’s reckoning. He thinks that, maybe, he’s just holding it so he can put his eyes somewhere other than Steve. “When we - I miss her. The second I walk away.”

“She’s a helluva lady.” His leg doesn’t stop bouncing, and Tony’s eyes track it.

“Something in particular bugging you besides the absence of Mr. Blue Eyes?”

“I…” Steve coughs and stops for a second. Somehow, Tony doesn’t fill the silence. He offers neither joke nor platitude nor inappropriate story about hookers in Vegas.

Tony waits.

It makes something close to a lump form in Steve’s throat, and simultaneously gives him strength to keep going. Tony cares. He can talk to Tony.

“With everything happening with that Hydra ghost that’s tailing him … I don’t want to let him out of my sight. Or the Tower. But that isn’t healthy, I know it isn’t healthy, I can’t put him in a bubble, as much as I might want to.”

“I get it,” Tony says softly. “I really, really get it. You feel powerless, and you actually _have_ power, normally, so it’s not a comfortable feeling, letting someone you love go out in the world that can, and has, hurt them.”

Right. Pepper and the Mandarin - Tony’s entire nature has shifted since Pepper Potts almost died.

“Yeah.” Steve leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees, his phone dangling from his hand. “I’m not used to being this scared,” he admits.

“None of us do well with fear.” Tony mirrors his posture. “We aren’t built for it. Fuck, I build things _to_ avoid fear. But, Bucky and Pep, they’re people. People who will be hurt. Who were hurt. And no matter what I build, or what I buy, or what you and I save … we have to trust that the world won’t take them away from us.”

“Yeah.” Steve doesn’t trust the world. Hasn’t since he freed dozens of tortured soldiers from Azzano. Hasn’t since he watched his first soldier die. Hasn’t since he woke up in 2011, sixty-five years too late for a dance, pushed into a world he’d saved that had gone and fucking ruined itself anyway.

“If it’s any consolation, me and Fury assigned three agents to monitor him in case he leaves the Tower while we’re gone.”

“Bucky will love that.” Steve’s lips twitch. “He might throw ‘em off his scent though. He even caught Natasha.”

“That was a fluke.” Nat speaks out of nowhere, and both men startle. Steve startles enough that his hand spasms, and he squeezes his phone, hard. Then he drops it.

“Shit.” He twists to grab it, but the quinjet hits turbulence and the damn thing bounces. Steve adjusts his feet so his head doesn’t slam into the floor of the plane - and brings his boot down on the phone. “Fuck.”

“I just updated that.” Tony eyes him and the now-obliterated phone with incredulity. “Holy fucking fuckballs, Cap.”

“I’m sorry.” Steve’s heart sinks in his chest. There goes the hope of any text messages from Buck to get him through the mission.

[ _We are approaching our destination_ ] JARVIS provides helpfully, and Steve continues to stare mournfully at his phone, and Tony gets up to activate his suit.

“I’ll give you a new one as soon as we get back on the plane,” he promises, his eyes rolling before they disappear behind his mask, the metal slithering out from strategically placed devices on his body. Steve nods, still weirdly upset. “A new phone. Prettier.”

He laughs, finally and stands with a nod. No point crying over shattered plastic.

Then, he sets his shoulders and prepares for the potential clusterfuck they’re walking into. The team got the briefing when they walked onto the quinjet - maybe fifty hostiles who seized an office building in some Eastern European country, an important building that often provided satellite offices to SHIELD. The word _hydra_ had been involved, so the Avengers were sent.

“If you’d told me I’d still be fighting Nazis in the year 2016,” Steve mutters to himself, slipping the commspiece into his ear.

Sam claps him on the shoulder, his wings and goggles in place. “Seriously.”

“Alright, Nat and Clint, do a sweep of the building and make sure there really aren’t any hostages. Tony, you and Sam should do an aerial inspection - it’s heavily windowed, so we should be able to see most of the floors. Heat-seeking tech might be a good choice. Thor didn’t pick up our call, so I’ll go in alone.”

“Bullsh-”

“I will.” He gives Clint a stern look, and the archer signs something rude at him. “That’s also true. But - I take fire better than anyone here. Bruce - hang back for now, and we’ll call you if it gets messy. We need someone on the ground though, making sure no weird signals leave the building, and making sure nothing happens to interfere with our comms.”

“I’m on _tech duty._ ” Bruce groans and settles into a chair, looking mildly relieved despite his protestations. “My PhDs aren’t in computer science, in case anyone was listening, they’re in-”

“Radiophysics, Biochemistry, Nuclear Physics, Mechanical Engineering, Mathematics, Inorganic Chemistry, and Combinatorics,” Nat and Clint rattle off, deadpan. Steve smiles down at his shoes, hoping Bruce won’t see.

“Although I think that last one is made up,” Clint tacks on, and Steve makes a ghastly snorting sound.

“Are there any questions?” He adjusts his cowl before lifting his chin to study the team. Bruce is half-glaring, half-laughing at Clint, but the rest of the team has their go-faces on. He nods. “Right.”

“I got your six, man,” Sam promises as they line up at the ramp, the quinjet now still.

Steve signals that he understood, and their commpieces hum to life.

The ramp lowers, and a cold breeze cuts into the quinjet. Steve studies the landscape for a moment, but there’s no sign of unfriendlies. He signals to the team to split off, and he walks down the ramp first, shield raised, and eyes peeled to his surroundings.

<”Doesn’t it seem...a little quiet?”> Clint whispers into the comms. He edges to Steve’s left, and Nat heads to the right, both of them holding rifles.

<”JARIVS isn’t picking up on any heat signals,”> Tony reports, taking off quietly with his new stealth armor. He disappears quickly into the black sky around them. It’s the early morning, early enough that the sun hasn’t even begun to glimmer on the horizon behind them yet.

It’s a strangely isolated building, Steve notes, something oddly tight in his chest. Nothing about this feels right, but there’s important intel in this building, and multiple reports of Hydra. They need to at least see this through.

Sam lifts up as well, Redwing disappearing in the opposite direction as its owner.

“I’m heading in,” Steve reports as quietly as he can, eyeing the building with trepidation. There are no lights on, anywhere.

He creeps into the front door, using the universal access card Tony had handed him before they headed out to scan his way in. The lobby is deserted as well, all the furniture in its proper place, the tv screens glowing faintly with the building developer’s logo.

“First floor, clear,” Steve announces after he’s done a thorough sweep. “Headed up to second.”

<”Roger, Cap”> Nat replies. <”Hawkeye and I will keep watch. Second floor also looks clear.”>

“We’ll see about that,” Steve mutters, more to himself, but is still partly relieved when Nat snorts into her comms.

The second floor is clear, though. And the third.

By the time he ascends to the fourth floor, laid out exactly like the previous two, nothing of interest to note, Steve’s anxiety has reached an all-time high. He’s never been this nervous on a mission before, but this is also one of the few, out-of-country missions he’s done since he met Bucky. It’s also the first mission he’s done involving Hydra since Project Insight - they’d had to crawl off and lick their wounds for a while, it seemed.

“Fourth floor clear.”

Someone on the team hums in response, Tony, he’d bet, and it’s confirmed a second later when Tony starts muttering to himself about malfunctioning equipment.

“What do you mean, malfunctioning?” Steve frowns and begins to climb the stairs towards the fifth floor.

<“I pointed JARVIS to a rabbit, like, fifteen feet from us.”>Tony mutters something else, too quiet to hear. <“He said his heat sensors didn’t pick up on it.”>

<”I got a bad feeling about this,”> Clint says, and Steve nods, forgetting Clint can’t see him.

“Entering fifth floor now,” Steve says, pushing the door open.

He walks out into the hallway and turns to his left, and then his right, his enhanced sight not needing any assistance to stare through the shadows.

Nothing.

Steve keeps his shield high, blocking the majority of his body as he passes through the fifth floor.

He almost drops the damn thing a second later when a voice issues from the darkness.

“Hey there, Cap.”

<”Fuck.”>

“We got an unfriendly,” Steve reports, stalking towards the voice. “Fifth floor.”

<”We got unfriendlies down here!”> Sam shouts back.

Gunfire sounds outside the building, and ice races down Steve’s spine.

<”Where the fuck did these assholes come from?”> Tony shouts. <”JARVIS, explain, now!”>

JARVIS’s response isn’t broadcast to the rest of the team, but judging by the curses and reports from the rest of them, they’ve been led into an ambush.

And Steve’s alone, on the fifth floor, with someone who makes him re-examine his understanding of _monstrous._

The man across from him is wearing a mask and heavy body armor, lined with silver that looks almost like vibranium. What’s visible of his skin is scarred, twisted horribly. Most of his hair has burned away, and the eyes that stare out from behind the mask are ghastly.

So this is Crossbones, a Hydra Operative they’ve gotten some intel on in the last few months, courtesy of SHIELD. Odd. Steve thought he was mostly used in an executioner capacity.

Then again, they are alone on the fifth floor of an isolated building in the middle of fuck-all nowhere, so maybe this is meant to be an execution.

Steve raises the shield, tries to block out the sounds of his team struggling, and prepares to fight.

Crossbones lunges quickly, and he deflects it easily enough. The man’s surprisingly strong, and Steve has a question to wildly wonder if he’s enhanced, before the other strike comes, and he has to block that too.

They fight brutally, Steve to incapacitate, and Crossbones to kill, judging by the wicked looking knife in a holster on his thigh. For now, he focuses on keeping Crossbones’s hand from inching towards that holster, lashing out with his foot and shield when possible, trading fists with the other, strangely bulky man as well as he can.

Not quite strong enough to really win in a fistfight with a supersoldier, Steve notes with some relief; he manages to slam his fist into Crossbone’s open left side, and the man groans before laughing. He doesn’t stop laughing, even when Steve starts to push forward more aggressively, on the offense now, doesn’t end his cruel, cold laugh even when it looks like he’s about to lose, inching towards the wall -- that worries Steve.

For a good reason, too. It turns out, Crossbones has a secret weapon.

“Do you know where your Bucky is right now, Captain?”

The world falls out from underneath him, but Steve corrects, changes the way he’s standing, chooses to ignore it. Crossbones is Hydra, after all, of course he knows Bucky, they’re obsessed, and it’s not worth losing the upper hand in this fight to react to it. He doesn’t even blink in response to Crossbones’s comment, and continues to grapple with him, across the devastated office floor. Steve won’t be shaken by the casual taunt, can’t be distracted by it, isn’t -

“Maybe he’s at 1917 Park Avenue.” Crossbones strikes out with the baton, and Steve barely twists out of the way in time, his heart stops so quickly. “Unit 5B, isn’t that right?”

Steve lunges out with a snarl, slamming his foot into the other man’s leg, but it’s not as effective as it should be. This fucking Hydra asshole, taunting him with Bucky’s address, not that it matters, not when -

“But I guess your little sweetheart is at the Tower, huh?” Crossbones dodges his next hit, and the next, gaining the upper hand as Steve steadily loses his temper, and his shit. “They got what, three junior agents tailing him right now?”

“Shut your _fucking_ mouth -” His voice breaks slightly, and Crossbones laughs, a cold, eerie sound. Steve raises his shield, but he freezes a second later.

Crossbones lifts a scarred, destroyed hand to his face and removes his mask.

Brock Rumlow smirks back at him.

“God, you’re a fucking cockroach,” Steve snorts, recovering as quickly as he can. “Didn’t I-”

“Drop a building on me?”

The wording is familiar. Too familiar.

It’s the first thing Bucky said to him, when he found out who he was.

_\- You dropped a building on my ex-boyfriend -_

Brock - the thing that used to be Brock - smirks back at him.

“Maybe we don’t even have to fight, buddy.” Brock lifts his hands defensively even as he speaks, the mask clattering to the floor. “We got so much in common, after all.”

“Like _fuck_ we do, asshole--”

“Supposed to be dead, survived being rebuilt,” Brock continues calmly, as though Steve hadn’t spoken, “...and maybe, just maybe, a preference for tall brunets with blue eyes?”

Steve starts to shake with fury, something he hasn’t done since he was too short to fight and too fuckin’ stupid to know any better -

Brock pitches his voice mockingly, his ruined lips twisted in an imitation of sadness. “Tell me, does he still cry in his sleep?”

For the first time in Steve’s life, he honestly wants to kill someone.

He’s killed before - had to, in the line of duty - but he never relished it. But he grabs his shield by the edge and aims it at Crossbone’s - _Rumlow’s_ \- head, fully intending to snap his neck. Rumlow is fast, though, faster than Steve expected. He shoves his armored forearm up and blocks the hit  - made of vibranium, then, as Steve expected - , and he laughs, a bitter and cruel sound.

“Not so virtuous after all, huh?” Steve loses his footing as Rumlow hits him in the thigh with something agonizing. “Not when it’s your baby on the line? I don’t blame you, he always was sweet as anything, always ready to give it up --”

Steve abandons the shield and tackles Rumlow to the ground, ready to beat him to death with nothing but his hands.

<“Steve! We need to pull out!”> Tony shouts into the comms. <“The building’s wired to blow, and we can’t stop it in time--”>

“Did your friends find - my - present?” Rumlow’s scarred face is turning steadily redder as Steve chokes him, not caring about the knife in Rumlow’s hand that cuts at his arms here and there. This son of a bitch is the one who was hurting Bucky -- he _doesn’t deserve to live, Steve didn’t pick up the fucking shield for this_ -

<“ _Steve_ !”> It’s Nat now, panic leaking into her typically calm voice, and that’s what stirs him. <“Steve, get your ass to the jet _now_.”>

With another inhuman snarl, Steve’s hands clench around Brock’s throat before he releases him, violently, calling the shield to his hand using the device Tony had built for him months ago. He slams the shield into Rumlow’s chest, hard enough to keep him down before he jumps to his feet and sprints for the door.

It doesn’t mean Brock can’t get in a parting shot:

“Guess I’ll be seein’ you around, Rogers! Why don’t you give little Jamie a call?”

 _He always called me Jamie,_ an echo of Bucky’s whisper says in his ear as he sprints down the hallway towards the windows facing east. _Fuckin’ hated that name, but he said Bucky was a name for a baby._

<“Taking off in a minute, Cap, can you get here in time?”>Bruce sounds like he’s trying very hard to stay calm.

“Give me forty five seconds.” He’d been headed for the elevator bay, but the windows will have to do. “Heading for the east side of the building now.”

<”We got unfriendlies!”> Sam adds, out of breath. <”Jet in sight - get your star-spangled ass over here, Steve.”>

He can’t even roll his eyes at Sam’s jab the way he normally would, not when it’s taking everything he’s got to ignore what he’s just learned and heard, to keep his shit together long enough to reach the jet.

Throwing his shield up in front of his body, Steve launches himself out of the fifth story window - <”We _talked_ about this, Steve!”> Sam shouts, but he doesn’t have time to respond - glass shattering around him and falling with him to the earth. His knees twinge, but that’s about all he has time to notice, when he slams into the ground and starts to sprint to the quinjet.

Bullets fly around him from the hideouts of the Hydra operatives that had clearly been lying in wait for them, for him, for this massive fuck-up, but Steve manages to dodge all of them.

<”Come on, Rogers”> Clint shouts.

Steve manages to cross the stretch of ground between the building and the quinjet in the promised forty five seconds. He sprints up the ramp as it begins to close, the angle changing rapidly, and he has to slide the last dozen feet, the gunfire pinging off the quinjet’s sides. The office building collapses as the charges set along its foundations are finally triggered, and the explosion rocks them slightly as the engines roar to life underneath them.

All Steve can think about now that he’s away from the fight is that they’d been _friends_ before Project Insight, fuck, they’d been _assigned_ to DC together for the ease of the working relationship.

The rest of the team sprints around him, trying to get their bearings, but Steve’s lost to thought; he’d gotten _drinks_ with Brock, laughed with him as the other chatted about the sweet little thing that waited for him at home, and it had been _Bucky_ all along  - Rumlow had been Steve’s friend, found a place in his life, and hung out with him at least once a week even before they’d moved to DC and- and - _had gone home every fucking time, to brutalize the man Steve would one day love._

“Whoa!” Tony, stripped out of his armor by this point, catches Steve, who stumbles and vomits, violently, onto the floor of the quinjet. “Fuck - Banner, get your test-thingy, I think Cap’s compromised --”

“Not poisoned,” Steve croaks, “Just--” He vomits again, his heart pounding in his ears, and Sam jogs towards them, a bottle of water in his hands. The quinjet takes off with Nat at the controls, and when they reach the cloud cover and turn the camouflage on, Steve remembers how to speak.

When he’s done, Bruce and Tony both look grey-faced.

“Call him.” Tony throws his own phone at Steve, whose destroyed phone still sits in the corner of the quinjet, where he’d smashed it. “Call him now.”

“We got eyes on him though,” Steve protests weakly, hating how helpless he feels, how anxiety’s clawing at his throat, ripping his insides to shreds with little to no sign of stopping. “We - it’s -”

“You’ll feel better when you hear his voice,” Tony soothes. “Just call him.” Bruce nods encouragingly, face strangely impassive but for the tightness around his eyes.

Steve dials the number by memory, and puts the phone next to his ear, turning away from his friends so they can’t quite see how twisted up by fear he is. He waits, and waits, and waits - will Bucky even pick up if Tony’s the one calling? Maybe he’s asleep, it’s well after one a.m. in New York, and --

The other end of the line picks up.

“Fuck.” Steve breathes a sigh of relief. “It’s me, sweetheart, I’m sorry if I woke you up, I just needed to hear your voice.”

There’s a quiet pause and the sound of breathing, and Steve smiles, imagining Bucky curled up in his bed, the blankets pulled up to his chin, eyes droopy with sleep.

Then:

“Captain America, I presume?”

That’s not Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hiding until next update_
> 
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> (which should be soon, very soon, if people are....interested in how this pans out)
> 
> I've had this plotline planned since the first chapter...the next few chapters should be up quickly/they're already almost all the way written.
> 
> There will be 21 chapters in this fic, with one chapter of epilogue.  
> There will be a happy ending.
> 
> The next ...five? chapters will be angst heavy, and torture will be involved, if not graphically depicted, other than vague descriptions that follow canon torture.


	15. Day Zero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky has trouble discerning dream from reality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky POV
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>  
> 
>  **Warnings**  
>  Chemical torture - non-graphic, other than description of pain.
> 
> (Most torture will be implied in this arc of the story, or happen off-screen, or be vaguely described)
> 
> Car crash
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>  
> 
> Also - this chapter is very short! As I mentioned a few chapters ago, this arc will have quicker chapters to speed up the narrative!!!

“C’mon, Bucky, you said I could pick the next song!”

“All your songs are depressing, Beccs.” Bucky smirks at his sister in the passenger seat, and then leans over with a sigh to swat at her jean-clad shins. “And feet off the dashboard. If we crash, your knees and face will _not_ thank you.”

“ _Your_ face won’t say thank you,” Becca mumbles, but she begrudgingly drops her feet to the floor.

“That doesn’t even make any sense.”

Becca smiles up at him, a gap between her front teeth - Mom had relented after pestering her for three years straight, after Becca had not dropped her stance on liking the gap in her teeth - and it’s weird. Something about her smile makes Bucky’s heart constrict. Painful.

Too painful.

His vision blacks out at the corners for a second, and he frowns, blinking until it clears.

“Migraines again?”

Bucky looks in the rearview mirror at Pietro, who’s slouching back casually, wearing a Fall Out Boy t-shirt.

“I haven’t gotten a migraine since I was nineteen,” Bucky points out.

“Lucky you,” Wanda deadpans, not turning her nose away from the window, which she’s been staring at with wide brown eyes for the entire drive.

The radio spits to life, and Bucky throws a look at his baby sister, who grins up at him evilly, twelve years old and full of crackling pre-teen spite. Something, again, twists in his chest.

_If Becca’s twelve...how can I remember being nineteen, she’s only four years younger than --_

Bucky blinks twice. The thought disappears.

“ _What’s the worst that I could say? Things are better if I stay - So long and goodnight, so long and goodnight-_ ”

“My Chemical Romance?” Bucky lifts his eyebrows and re-tightens his grip on the steering wheel. Upstate New York flashes past them, the colors lurching strangely. Weird. He should schedule an appointment with his optometrist after this.

Or a neurologist.

“Gerard Way is an angel,” Becca defends hotly, leaning over to dial up the volume. She begins to sing along obnoxiously. “ _Came a time, when every star fall, brought you to tears again, we are the very hurt you sold_ -”

“You’re punishing me because Dad won’t let you play this in the house,” Bucky complains, and Wanda laughs, a sharp sound that manifests more like pain at the base of his skull.

His shoulder’s on fire, suddenly; Bucky glances down, but nothing seems wrong. When he looks back to the road, the sky flickers.

_“Call the neurologist!”_

That isn’t his voice. That isn’t his thought. That voice is _familiar,_ but also _not,_ and -

“Just let her listen to the song,” Pietro mutters. “You should have just let her listen to the song.”

“What?” Bucky’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror again. Pietro doesn’t answer, just stares back, unblinking. Wanda seems frozen too. “Guys?”

“It’s not all your fault,” Becca reassures him, reaching over to grip his upper arm. It hurts. He stares at her in surprise. “Eyes on the road, Jamie.” He’s about to protest that she never calls him that when Becca leans over and jerks the steering wheel, hard. “Look out!”

It’s too late - the truck slams into the car, and Bucky’s last real thought was _it wasn’t there a second ago._

Black, machines beeping, someone shouting orders.

Bucky blinks his eyes open, and stares up at a fluorescent light. Blinks again. It’s just the sun, glaring down at him as he bleeds into the asphalt. Twisted metal is wrapped around his arm, but he’s not in the car this time, just pinned to the road like an insect; his family is dead in the car, he knows they are, but he can’t bring himself to look, not again, can’t see them staring at him with blank eyes.

So he turns his head to the right, towards the wreckage of the truck, the scent of gasoline heavy in the air.

It’s not gasoline that trickles down the pavement this time.

Something shivery-bright, cobalt blue even against the black asphalt, winds its tendrils towards Bucky, looking like some Lovecraftian beast while it hunts its prey. He tries to get up, to get away from the spreading stain, but he’s pinned down. Can’t move.

Even through the wreckage of the family car, the radio still plays, but it sounds like it’s reaching Bucky down a long hallway, through a door. “ _Can you hear me? Are you near me? Can we pretend? To leave and then - We’ll meet again._ ”

The chemical reaches Bucky, but it all redirects into the metal wrapped around his shoulder.

***

It’s the pain that wakes him up.

***

“Hold the subject down!” A faceless man in a white coat barks, and men wearing black - tactical gear, Bucky thinks distantly - push him down.  

It’s all pain, flashing like a fire in the forest of his mind, swallowing everything, radiating out from the center of his head, and his shoulder, _fuck,_ his shoulder, it hurts, it hurts, it hurtsithurtsithurts -

“Get the next dose ready.”

Bucky can’t feel the needle, but he can feel everything after.

The last thing he’s sure of is that he’s screaming Steve’s name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BEFORE YOU GET MAD I'M GOING TO POST THE NEXT CHAPTER VERY SOON


	16. Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and the team scramble after the news of Bucky's kidnapping, but they're quickly called to make a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No new warnings for this chapter: 
> 
> There's the continued kidnapping plotline/Steve angst
> 
>  
> 
> Also, non-graphic depiction of chemical torture (Character in intense pain, though) and the described aftermath of torture (Namely, character in pain)

The quinjet rips through the air at its top speed, but it still isn’t fast enough.

Tony turns his wrist over, powering down the mini commscreen that had just displayed Nick Fury’s stern face.

“They found all three agents.” He glances at Steve, who hasn’t budged from his station behind the pilot’s chair, his fingers digging into the seat. “Executed. They’d been dead for an hour by the time we called it in.”

“We got another hour in the air,” Bruce says warily. He’s eyeing Steve’s hands, and Steve realizes the metal of the chair is actually bending in his grip. Steve releases it and shakes his hands out, but doesn’t change his stance.

“What are our leads?” Nat asks, sitting in the co-pilot’s chair. She has one hand on Clint’s shoulder, but he doesn’t look up from the controls. Something heavy and hurtful has descended over the team.

Steve thinks it might be his fault - he’s toxifying the atmosphere with his despair - but rage and grief and guilt are ripping him apart too efficiently for him to voice an apology or work on rectifying it. He’s … beyond speech. He knows that much. His team needs him to say something, but Steve can’t.

It feels like he’s been pushed down, somewhere far inside himself, staring into the world at a great distance, waiting for Fury to call back and say there was a mistake, someone just stole Bucky’s phone and was playing a prank.

Fury does not call back.

“It’s Hydra.” Hadn’t they already known that? After Steve had heard the _wrong voice_ answering Bucky’s phone, the man had laughed and whispered _Hail Hydra,_ hanging up without another word.

Tony comes to stand next to Steve, but he can’t even acknowledge it. “They left a calling card where they grabbed him.”

A horrible grunt of pain rends the air.

It takes Steve a solid five seconds to realize it came from him.

Nat stands from her chair and walks over lightly to where Steve is standing like a ghost. She doesn’t address him though, her voice clipped and cool and controlled.

“Were there any street cams? Anything we can go off of?”

“Yeah.” Tony clears his throat and shoots an unreadable look at Steve before going to the computer screens that line one side of the quinjet. “It was in Midtown, there had to be cameras. I’m sure I can get them, no problem.” Tony’s fingers are a blur as he types.

The entire world is a blur, come to think of it.

Steve mechanically reaches up and wipes away the tears he wasn’t really aware of a second ago.

“Got it.” Tony looks over his shoulders, his hands hovering off the keyboard for a second.

“Steve.” It’s Sam this time. “Steve, you might not want to watch this.”

“I’m going to watch it.” It’s the first thing he said since Bucky didn’t pick up the phone. It scrapes out of his throat, agonizing, and seems like it hits the floor, turgid and defeated.

He walks stiffly the screens, and Tony gives him one last searching look before muttering something along the lines of _and my fucking therapist thinks I have problems_ and hitting play.

Sam and Nat flank Steve, but it offers little to no comfort as Tony fast forwards the tapes towards the 11:35 time stamp.

Over three hours ago. This happened over three hours ago.

It’s just Bucky, at first, walking down a well-lit street, holding a pizza. Tony clicks something when Bucky in the video turns a corner, and the perspective and camera angle changes. This street isn’t as well-lit, which is odd, given the district of Manhattan that it’s in.

Bucky stops, suddenly, and Steve’s chest feels like it’s being ripped apart. _Why would you stop?_ He thinks wildly. The question is answered a few milliseconds later as Bucky fumbles to get his phone from his pocket, a smile clear on his face, even through the slightly grainy quality of the camera.

“Who was calling him?” Steve asks hoarsely. “Who-”

“It’s a Stark Phone, I can access the records. I mean, it’s technically a felony, but” - Nat gives him a Murder Look that Steve’s too tired and scared to make, and Tony raises his hands in surrender - “Fine. Give me a second.” Tony turns to a different screen and types rapidly; Steve keeps his eyes on the screen, unsure if his heart is still beating.

Bucky’s frozen in place, his smile fading slightly.

Then, without warning, he collapses, like a puppet whose strings were cut.

“No!” Steve lurches forward, and Sam’s hand flies up to block him and hold him back. What was Steve going to do? Charge the computer screens? Launch himself backwards in time and space?

“What the fuck?” Tony looks up from a crawl of data on his new screen, brow furrowed. Nat leans forward and hits pause on the video feed. “That’s not possible.”

“Who was it from, Tony?” Bruce asks sternly.

Tony doesn’t answer right away, just walks over to where Steve’s phone lies, shattered, on a nearby seat. He holds it up and inspects it, appearing to be in deep thought.

“Tony?” Bruce repeats, sounding dangerously impatient.

“Steve called him.” Tony’s eyes still aren’t clearing, clearly still pondering it, but Steve twitches violently.

“No. No, I didn’t call him. My phone was broken three hours ago, Tony, it’s-”

“Impossible,” Tony agrees. He walks over, weighing the phone in his hand. “Incredibly impossible.”

He hands the broken phone to Bruce, who takes it with a wary look; he returns to the computer and stares at the monitor for a second before he resumes typing, at a faster speed than before.

“Here.” Nat waves her hand to the video feed, and it starts to play again.

A car drives down the street slowly, and several figures in black slip out, collect Bucky as though he were nothing more than a sack of flour, and heft him into the car. Steve makes a strangled noise of indignant rage, and Sam grips his shoulder comfortingly.

“Follow that car,” Sam says when Steve can’t say anything. Natasha nods, already hunched over the controls, pulling up the subsequent street cameras that follow the car through the darkened streets of Manhattan.

Helplessness closes around Steve like a vice. Tony starts to mutter to himself, and Nat doesn’t look up; Sam doesn’t look away from Steve, and Bruce has taken to rubbing his temples and breathing very slowly.

From the front of the quinjet, Clint shouts back at them. “Guys? What’s going on back there? Did I miss something?”

***

They head to Tony’s lab the second the quinjet lands. The street cameras had only gotten them to the edge of the city, when suddenly all of the footage had wiped. Tony had grimly promised to resurrect the lost data, but Steve knew. By the time he did, it would already be too late.

Wanda and Pietro had appeared for a minute in the hangar before Pietro had disappeared without a warning, and Wanda had trailed after him, not before giving Steve a brief hug.

Now, standing in the strange white light of Tony’s sanctuary, they watch as the genius himself works through a series of algorithms, Bruce piping up now and then with ideas. Tony nods and mutters, and finally sighs, his head drooping.

“They hacked the phone, which I think you already guessed. But, they managed to mimic Steve’s phone’s … identity, for lack of a better term… so that when Bucky looked down, he thought it was Steve calling. From there, I’m guessing they used some kind of sonic device to knock him unconscious, so there wouldn’t be a fight.”

“The guy’s a history teacher,” Clint breaks in, sounding angry. “How much of a fucking fight did they expect?”

No one has anything to say to that, but the expressions on everyone gathered suggests that they all have different theories.

“I can’t track the phone, or the real source of the person who managed to mimic Steve’s phone. I’m sorry, Cap. I’ll keep trying, but.” Tony shrugs tightly and goes back to typing, his body wound tighter than a coiled snake.

Vibrating with anxiety, Steve waits and waits. It’s something he’s not good at. He knows he’s no good with patience, never has been, even when he was a runt. Nat and Sam try to keep him company over the next few hours, but by the time noon rolls around, and Tony isn’t any closer, Steve’s almost officially worn a hole in the floor of the lab from pacing.

“Alright. I’m sorry, Cap, but you’re making _me_ anxious, and I can’t think when I’m anxious.” Tony gestures towards a cooling unit in the corner of the lab. “I have some supersoldier grade valium that I’ve been toying with. Please, do take one, and I’ll wake you with a shot of epi when I have a goddamn lead.”

“Tony,” Clint chides, but Steve shrugs, figuring _nothing_ is better than everything gnawing at him at once.

Before he can move, though, Tony curses vividly.

“What is it?” Nat leaps to his side, staring up at the computer.

“I just got a message,” Tony says slowly, clenching his hands into fists for a second before lowering them. “It’s a video file.”

“Find the source,” Nat barks. “Don’t play it.”

“Play it.” Steve speaks up, his body tight, the whole goddamn world drooping over his shoulders.

He’ll never be done with playing Atlas, it seems.

“Cap, I don’t know if that’s a -”

“Play it.” He hasn’t used a commander’s tone with any of his team in _years,_ not since the Chitauri and he realized that they all had just as much skill and autonomy as him, when he realized that the beauty of their team was that they were individuals.

He uses it now.

Tony doesn’t flinch so much as sigh. “Play it,” he confirms, and his voice activates the video.

It’s Bucky.

Steve almost collapses to his knees, and he would, if it weren’t for Sam and Nat hauling him to his feet, Sam releasing a small hiss of strain at the weight.

He looks so lost, strapped to a table, eyes dazed as he stares around the room. The table is at an angle, his ankles strapped down, as well as his hands; the entire room is dark, and the only light shines on Bucky Barnes.

“ _The subject is performing admirably_ ,” a voice says off-screen, in a thick European accent. “ _He has much promise_.”

“ _Too much will, though._ ” Another man speaks on the other side of the video, and Bucky’s head lists around in confusion. He isn’t wearing a shirt, and the scars on his left shoulder seem to burn brighter than ever, fresh blood staining the skin there. Several needles attached to what seem like IVs are placed at his left bicep, his right hip, and his right elbow.

Steve’s hand goes unconsciously to the shield at his back; he holds it in front of his body like a comfort, like it will block what he’s seeing.

“ _We can fix that._ ”

A hand pushes Bucky’s hair back from his face.

“ _Let’s try this again._ ” Machines whir to life, and Bucky begins to shake his head, looking panicked, still unable to speak through whatever’s happening inside him, and then -

Bucky screams, and Steve bites down so hard, he feels a tooth crack.

***

“The signal’s jumping around.” Tony bangs his hand against the screen in frustration. “I can’t track it. Sent it SHIELD’s way, to see if they can decrypt it. Might take a few more hours…”

But it’s been more than a few hours since the video. It’s coming up to a full day since Bucky was taken, and the phrase “out of his mind with grief” doesn’t even begin to describe Steve’s mental state.

“I have one potential lead,” Tony comments suddenly, and Steve’s neck twinges from how quickly he lifts his head. “Maybe? It looks like somewhere in Jersey? If only because it’s the one place the signal’s _not_ pinging to.”

“I’m going.” Steve stands quickly, the shield still in his hands. “Where is-”

“Oh fuck.” Tony greys at the same time the sirens start to sound.

“What’s happening?” Nat sits bolt upright from the cat nap she’d been taking on a lab table, and Clint blinks awake next to her.

Bruce looks up from his own computer screen, blinking through his glasses.

Fury materializes on the Avengers’ official ‘shit’s about to get real’ board, thusly named by a drunken Tony three years ago.

“Time for the team to assemble,” Fury announces, and Steve nods. Did SHIELD pick up on the anomaly too? “Terrorist attack in Ontario, so it’s almost local.”

“Fury.” Tony speaks first, uncharacteristically nervous. “We’re...a little busy right now.”

“I understand that.” Fury’s eyes shift to Steve for a second before returning to Tony. “But, that doesn’t change the fact that terrorists are currently threatening over three thousand office workers. It’s a forty five minute flight. Suit up.”

“Fury, we-”

On screen, Fury lifts a hand to his earpiece and frowns.

“Scratch that. It’s not just Ontario. Paris, too. Some sort of chemical attack on a bank. And…” Fury looks uneasy. It’s a first. “Apparently Hydra’s taking credit for both attacks.”

“Fucking-” Clint kicks a chair, and it sails across the lab. Bruce’s head sinks to the lab bench in front of him, and his shoulders start to tremble in a tell-tale way.

“Another attack in Naples.” Fury blanches. Another first. “Get your ass in gear. I’ll call up the B-Team. Good luck.”

The screen shuts down, and the team begins to move, all except Tony and Steve.

“I’m not going.” Nat stops to look at him, and Sam shoots him an apologetic look over his shoulder as he runs to the elevator with Clint.

“I’m sorry, Cap.” He rolls his eyes at her tone, but Nat puts a small hand on his forearm and squeezes softly. “Steve. Look at me.” He reluctantly obeys. “Hydra’s doing this on purpose. They’re making you choose. The world … or Bucky.”

“Bucky.” Steve doesn’t wait to respond. “Fuck, that’s not even a contest. Bucky. I choose Bucky, every time.”

“I don’t think you get to make that choice,” Nat says quietly, her eyes pained, and that cuts Steve to the quick. For once, she isn’t wearing a mask.

Steve wishes she’d put it back on.

“I’m not going,” he repeats. “I choose Bucky.”

“You’re Captain America. Is one person really worth more than-”

“Yes. He is. I’m not-”

“Lost the signal.” Tony cusses in disbelief and turns to look at Steve. “Look, Steve, I agree with you. Really. I do. If it were me…” He trails off and shakes his head. “But this lead isn’t even a real lead. Every string I pull, something collapses. I need way more time, and the world needs you.”

“I can’t.” Steve’s shoulders are shaking, and mortified, he realizes he’s sobbing. “I c-can’t, not when he’s - when Bucky’s--”

“Come on.” Nat takes him by the hand and leads him to the elevators. Steve moves rotely, as though no longer in control of his body.

Did he ever have control of his body? When he was small, sickness dominated his choices. After the experiment, the U.S. government did.

“We need you,” Nat continues, her eyes still wounded. “We need you with us. And we’ll help you, you know we will, but there’s gotta be a world that exists for us to help you.”

“I’ll stay.” Tony pulls the video message back up, his shoulders set stubbornly. “I’ll take the heat from Fury, too. Fuck it, this place is a fortress, what’s he going to do to me?”

The government owns Tony Stark the least of all of them.

“Thank you,” Steve breathes out, still crying shamefully, his body wracked with it. “I - Tony, I-”

“Go.” Tony waves a hand at him impatiently. “Save the world, then save your guy. We got your back.”

Steve nods and grits his teeth. He allows Nat to pull him onto the elevator, and she doesn’t comment when he sinks to his knees, cradling his head in his hands as he sobs brokenly.

By the time the elevator reaches the quinjet bay, Steve’s upright, face dry, shield in place.

“Let’s go,” he orders to the assembled Avengers, ignoring their looks of concern. “A-Team, with me.”

It’s the first time that going off to save the world feels like a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....Next chapter, Bucky POV again. His POV's will be shorter than Steve's for this part of the arc, if only because torture/trauma don't really lend themselves to extensive internal reflection. But, some more answers will be given, regarding Bucky's past and Hydra's interest in him, in the next chapter.
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> [ducks and hides in the proverbial bush because I started this story out as a fluffy light-hearted romp between modern!Bucky and Cap!Steve and now we're here because I'm a flaming trash can for shit like this and I'm sorry]
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> [[[[If it's any consolation, I've been working on a coffeeshop AU that might also be an A/B/O AU and there wouldn't be any torture in that...]]]]


	17. Day Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky wakes up in Hydra captivity and learns some surprising things about his own past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:**
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> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> More torture aftermath.
> 
> Implied death of a character (in the past, and this chapter is really the first time you've heard their name said)
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> Brock and Bucky meet face to face for the first time since Brock's "death"

The next time Bucky’s really aware of anything, he wishes the unawareness back.

His entire body aches, his head worst of all, and the dingy underground lab they’ve locked him in reeks of a reject from a horror movie set.

His mouth is too fuzzy to speak at first, so he tries to swallow a few times. It’s futile. They’ve got some sort of IV in his arm, keeping him alive, but it leaves behind that tacky dryness in his mouth, the one he remembers all too well from his eleven month recuperation at sixteen.

There’s a few scientists clustered in the corner, muttering and pointing up at a screen that looks like it contains Bucky’s vital signs. He can’t focus on it for very long without feeling nauseated. He groans, and a few of the men and women look over at him.

“How long -” He licks his bottom lip futilely, trying to get some moisture there, where his lip is cracking. He can’t finish the question; his head hurts too badly.

“You’ve been our guest for two days now, James.”

Bucky tilts his head towards the one who’d spoken, and is surprised to discover it’s not a scientist, but rather a handsome man in his mid-thirties, with blonde hair.

 _Typical_.

“Can’t say that it’s been…” he searches for the word, head rolling slightly as he struggles against the intensity of what feels like a migraine on steroids. “...Particularly welcoming.”

“Ah, yes, I apologize. Progress often makes demands of us all.”

“Progress?” Bucky squints up at the man, snorting. Then, his eyes widen in recognition. “What the fuck - aren’t you a senator?” The man smiles patiently and walks around to sit in front of Bucky, who realizes now he’s being held up by the wrists and ankles on some creepy-ass tilting table.

_Yeah. Great. That’s just. Great._

“Senator…Wallman? From Illinois?”

“The one and the same.” Peter Wallman, whose face had become fairly recognizable by this point, the firebrand senator from the heart of the country, known as a moderate with a heart of gold, who fucking volunteered in soup kitchens in D.C. when he had any downtime.

Some of his kids wrote fucking letters to this asshole.

Bucky can’t help it; he laughs. Wallman looks at him politely, waiting for him to finish, and when he trails off into a weak chuckle, he’s clearly waiting for him to explain. Whatever. They’re probably going to murder Bucky. _That’s...Cool._

 _Steve_ -

For a second, Bucky swears he can see Steve, in the corner of the room, smiling softly at him, soft enough to make his heart ache. He shakes his head slightly to clear it and finally answers Wallman’s unasked question.

“Just. Doesn’t Hydra have any original ideas?”

“Cut off one head-”

“And two more will take its place, yeah, I fucking get it, I’ve read, like, a few myths.” Bucky rolls his eyes. “It was my--”

“--Minor in college?”

Bucky stares at Wallman for a long second before doing his best to shrug while restrained. “I guess I should be flattered that all these important people started files on me recently.” Talking is taking a lot out of him; he isn’t medically dehydrated thanks to the IV, but the exhaustion and pain are winning out.

He’s been a sarcastic piece of shit since the day he was born though; he intends to go out that way, too.

“We’ve had a file on you for ten years, James.”

Bucky grits his teeth, and Wallman smiles. “Don’t like being called James? What would you prefer - Bucky? Barnes?”

“I’d prefer it if you went and fucked yourself,” Bucky says genially, and someone snorts, out of his line of sight.

“Told you he was a piece of work.”

He knows that voice.

Wallman glares sternly at the newcomer, but the damage is done. Bucky’s muscles lock up in terror as he’s thrown into fight-or-flight, and given that he’s tied down to this fucking table, neither one’s an option.

Freeze it is.

A scientist makes a noise of alarm, not that it really registers with Bucky. He doesn’t need a doctor to tell him that his blood pressure just plummeted, that his heart feels ready to burst out of his chest, that panic has him by the throat, and he can’t - fucking - get -

“You two know each other, of course.” Wallman’s still glaring at Brock, who edges around the table to stand behind the senator, a smirk affixed to his hideous, scarred face. “But that was in better times.”

“Hey, Jamie.”

Bucky wants to snarl and show his teeth, but all he can do is hyperventilate.

“Your boyfriend says hi,” Brock sneers. “He cried for you.”

“A disappointment, as ever,” Wallman sighs, forgetting his unhappiness with Brock for the time being.

The reminder of Steve centers Bucky more than anything else. Again, he swears he can see Steve at the corner of his vision, wearing a clean white t-shirt ( _tighter than should be legal, who buys your shirts, Rogers?_ ), his hair clean and standing up in the front like he’s just woken up. He stares at Bucky for a long moment, a soft smile on his face.

“Why me?” Bucky asks, blinking. The apparition of Steve disappears; he’s either going crazy, or on his way to brain damage, or drugged out of his mind.

Well. All three were possibilities, to be fair.

“Is it because of St- Captain America?” He catches himself and sets his jaw.

“It certainly is not,” Wallman says in a tone that should be soothing.

“We were always _interested_ in you,” Brock adds calmly. Not Brock. This - this _thing_ with scars around his eyes and a devil inside him is _not_ Brock. Brock had glimpses of humanity for all his horror. This is not Brock.

“Lucky me,” Bucky mumbles, his eyes drifting to the white, stained ceiling above him. His chest tightens. He probably won’t ever see the sky again.

Unbidden, the thought of Steve in the early spring, walking through Prospect Park, the wind ruffling his hair comes to mind. Steve smiles at him over his shoulder, absurd khaki pants rolled up, forming endearingly messy cuffs. His fingers are stained with paint when he runs his fingers through his hair.

That memory is only five days old.

 _Hold onto it,_ something in him whispers. _They can’t take that from you._

He drifts back into himself as Wallman starts doing that thing Bucky always thought was reserved for movies.

The fucker monologues.

“Tell me, Mr. Barnes, do you recall the name of the man who ran your experimental trial in 2007?”

He refuses to answer. Bucky thinks back to the memory, thinks about kissing Steve in front of a fountain, not caring that they were in public and could have their photo taken. His gut had twinged, at the time, to think about someone leaking the story of them to the press; it was remarkable that it hadn’t happened yet. Funny how that was Bucky’s biggest stressor of the season, up until two days ago.

Perspectives change, and whatnot.

“Dr. Charles Singer,” Wallman supplies when Bucky won’t. “He worked with us for a number of years; well, not with us. For us. He had a crisis of conscience when he discovered the lab he headed was funded by Hydra.”

Brock snorts like this would amuse him, that a good man would have issue with being controlled by a goddamn Nazi organization.

Bucky isn’t saying anything, but he remembers Dr. Singer. He was old, and soft-spoken, and incredibly kind. He’d sat with Bucky through every stage of the trial, his black frames making him look like a wise owl; he’d even let Bucky play his music while the chemicals swam through his body.

“He chose to leave our employ, which was fair.” Wallman sits against the back of his chair and tilts his head. “He also chose to steal some valuable information, which was not fair. You see, I assume, where this is going.”

Dr. Singer had a crush on Bubbe. She knew it, Zayde knew it, hell, the nursing staff knew it. Zayde said he couldn’t blame the man, and Bucky couldn’t blame him either. Even after they moved back to Indiana, Singer had stayed in touch for the next two years, sending postcards here and there, always addressed to Bucky Schwarzfeld, an oddity considering that was Bubbe’s maiden name, and Singer had called him “James” or “young man” for the entirety of the trial.

“By the time we’d realized that he’d been using that valuable information - and using it to run trials no less, bless his heart, to help the critically wounded - his most successful subject had … disappeared.”

The postcards had stopped coming at a certain point. Bucky remembers feeling confused, and then letting it go, because he’d just gotten into college.

“Using our great discovery for cell reparation was noble, to be sure, but ultimately, not in line with Hydra’s goals,” Wallman drones on and on, and Bucky would find this amusing if he weren’t also scared shitless. “But when we heard rumors that his trial had not only _helped_ one remarkable young man, but also had _improved_ him, we were … interested.”

Bucky thinks that he might be sick. If he vomits, will they at least clean him off? He breathes as shallowly as he can, not wanting to find out.

“Enhanced reflexes, and dare I say, _superhuman_ dexterity, lent to one of the most promising young athletes in the world; who, after a tragic accident, swore off the sport entirely. Or, at least, was kept from it. We hunted for you for _years,_ James, we searched and searched, but the hospital mysteriously burned down in a freak accident, no files surviving, and when we found Singer, he refused to let us know of your whereabouts.” Wallman sighs, heavily and shakes his head. “Regretfully, he’d run his course of usefulness, and in his old age, could no longer replicate what had made the trial so successful.”

They’d killed him. Bucky isn’t so disoriented that he can’t piece that together. Grief winds through his restrained body, nowhere to go.

“We found you thankfully, through social media. Thank God for that.” Wallman sighs, and Brock walks forward, slowly. Bucky writhes for the first time since he’d woken up, trying to get away from him. Brock’s smile doesn’t budge. “And, thank God that you have a preference for older, authoritative men.”

He’s going to be sick. He is. He is. Bucky squeezes his eyes shut.

An image of Steve, again, but this time, wrestling with Pietro playfully on the common room floor. The two had tussled back and forth, knocking a vase off a nearby table, and they both leapt apart when Pepper had half-heartedly scolded them. Steve had spent three hours gluing the vase back together; she’d laughed delightedly, because Tony had ordered her a replacement vase the second the first one shattered. The one Steve repaired was the one still sitting out; the new one sat in storage somewhere.

Bucky tries to control his breathing when he feels Brock standing over him, and he can’t focus on what else Wallman is saying, the panic is rising so sharply inside of him, and any image of Steve isn’t quite enough for it to go away. So, he turns to the old trick he’d started when he was recovering in the hospital.

_Xia. Zhou. Qin. Han. Cao Wei, Shu Han, Dong Wu. Jin. Northern and Southern. Sui. Tang. The Five. Song. Yuan. Ming. Qing. Republic._

“Are you even listening, Bucky-bear?” Brock says from right above him.

“Why are you telling me this?” It’s the first thing Bucky’s said in a while, and it’s hard to get the words out around the exhaustion.

“Because, gorgeous.” Brock trails a hand through his hair, and Bucky shakes his head, trying to push his hand away. “Soon enough, you won’t even remember it.”

It’s foreboding, and intended to terrify him. He can tell he’s supposed to bend, supposed to show fear, supposed to break.

Instead, Bucky lifts his eyes to Wallman’s face, ignoring Brock entirely. _“Shema yisrael, adonai eloheinu, adonai echad_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's reciting the first lines of The Shema; in English, it means: "Hear O Israel, the Lord our God is one Lord," as a statement of his faith and refusal to break.
> 
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> Steve POV again next chapter.....thoughts? predictions? questions? concerns? Bueller?


	18. Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve waits to hear news of Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve POV  
>  **Warnings**
> 
> Continued angst
> 
> Continued resolution issues
> 
> Mentions of domestic violence, non-graphic.

“Do you want the bad news or the bad news?” Tony hasn’t slept in days, that much is obvious.

It’s been four days since the first video was sent to them, which means it’s been almost five days since Bucky was taken, and Steve feels more hollow than he did for the entire year after coming out of the ice. There’s been a few more taunting videos and photos sent, always with a different source, always designed to confuse them, and Steve’s been forbidden from watching them after he broke the computer screen the last time.

Nat gives him thin-lipped updates, her cheekbone still busted from a hit she took in Naples; Sam’s on crutches, and Scott Lang, due to malfunctioning equipment, is stuck at two inches tall for the time being.

“A real pain in the ass,” Sam had grumbled when he sat down on a chair that Scott was resting on - which earned Sam a poke in the ass as a warning.

Thor arrived two days ago, and was surprisingly mournful at the news of Bucky’s capture. As they stand around and wait for Tony’s bad-and-worse news, he holds his hammer in his hands the way one might hold a delicate flower, his fingers absentmindedly stroking over the runes of Mjolnir’s sides.

“Just talk, Tony.” Bruce doesn’t look much better than Stark, his face slightly grey, his eyes bloodshot. The part of Steve that has any wonder left wonders if it might be time for that supersoldier valium, for Bruce and himself.

“While I was doing my thing, pulling on random strings in the internet - not recommended, by the way, people’s search histories are  _ fucked  _ \- I found something very interesting. A little back door that someone seemed to have forgotten to close; I thought aha! That’s weird, this little tiny hobbit door just leading me through these address, so I what did I do?”

None of them answer; Tony’s talking a mile a minute, hands spread wide, and it’s clear he doesn’t need a response to keep going.

“I followed it! I know, I know, very Alice in Wonderland, the cat who got axed by curiosity, yada yada yada, anyway, long story short, Mr. Dark Web Back Door leads me to none other than the U.S. State Department.”

That gets a response.

“Are you saying the State Department has a Hydra mole?” Sam wipes a hand down his face. “God, didn’t they learn with Project Insight?”

“Thaddeus Ross is in bed with Hydra?” Nat lifts a brow. An entire brow. “That seems odd, even for him.”

“He’s scum,” Bruce agrees, something tight and pained in his face. “But … I thought he was just regular scum.”

“He isn’t,” Tony says, a manic gleam in his eye; whether that’s his discovery or his lack of sleep is anyone’s guess. “Because that’s just the thing - Hydra didn’t approach Ross. Ross approached Hydra.”

Everyone looks at Steve, but he’s beyond the point of recoil. He can only imagine how hollowed out he looks. He can feel the space between his ribs reverberating, echoing with a grief that crashes down on him again, and again, and again.

_ Think of what you lost. Think of how you failed. Think of what you - _

“So,” Tony continues uneasily, and Steve realizes he’s vibrating with rage when Nat rests a firm hand on his shoulder. He tries his best to stop. “I kept pulling. You know. Mistakes were made, felonies committed, maybe some mild treason, and bing bang boom --” He smacks his hand against his keyboard, and dozens of email documents and things that definitely have a Classified watermark appear behind him. Tony’s face is still lit with an unholy combination of glee and rage. 

“The Suck-retary of State is pushing this new project.” Another button clicked. “The Accords. Basically, they want to keep supers under governmental regulation, make sure we’re under lock and key. But here’s the thing.” Tony hits another button, and a graph flies to the foreground of the documents. “There hasn’t been a major fiasco made  _ worse  _ by supers in over a year. We got too good at our jobs. So, Rossinator decides to reach out to some contacts that were so  _ conveniently  _ left behind after the helicarriers, and” - he waves his hands for dramatic effect as fireworks dance across the screens behind him - “Commits some treason of his own. Helps connect Hydra to a few interesting details about the Avengers, helps them gain resources and support overseas, props up some not-so-great people in positions of authority to open the door - all under the promise of … of …” Tony stops, uncertainty clouding his face.

“Of what, Tony?” Steve crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Spit it out.”

“They wanted you to lose your shit, El Capitan.” Tony sighs heavily, the gleam now gone from his eyes. He slumps back in his chair, causing it to roll backwards a few feet. “They wanted it on camera, in the news, that Captain America was driven mad - by the loss of his gay lover, no less - and murdered a bunch of baddies in rage after being unable to fulfill his duties.”

Steve’s heart, what’s left of it, sinks to his toes and stays there. “Why-”

“So they’d have a reason for their fucking Accords.” Tony nods his head at the screen, and dozens of photos of Steve and Bucky in public race forward; it’s obvious that they’re a couple in every single one. 

Steve licks his lip and searches for something to say. Nothing comes to mind.

“I recorded all of it. Backed it up eighteen different ways. Anything happens to  _ any  _ of us, and I mean  _ anything,  _ it goes live. Fuck, it’s all going live the second we get Bucky Barnes back here.” Tony stands again, righteous fury making the lithe lines of his body go rigid. He waves a wrench at no one in particular. “They can’t fuck with us. Not like this.”

“Thanks,” Steve whispers, unsure of what else to say. The word comes out broken in the middle, a bit like Steve at the moment, and Tony nods, a kind expression leaking through his obvious exhaustion.

“You spoke of additional bad news, Anthony.” Thor sets his hammer down and crosses his massive arms in front of his chest. “What is it?”

“It’s not just the Accords.” Tony deflates further and wrings his hands. “Steve. You need to look at the file Nat put together. I know” - he raises his hands in an attempt to calm Steve when he opens his mouth hotly to protest - “I know, you don’t want to invade his privacy. But we’re past that point. And … something tells me when we get your boy back, he’s going to need a lot of help. And he can’t be explaining every little thing in his past to you; you gotta be ready to jump in.”

He holds out a manila file folder and clears his throat while it hangs in space between them, still unaccepted. “I...added the information I got from digging. Read this. And I’ll keep working over here.”

Steve stares at the folder for five seconds before he reaches out to take it.

***

It’s difficult to read the things that Bucky went through.

The trial. Dr. Singer had been a kind man, that much was clear, but Tony’s digging had revealed that he’d had to flee Hydra; his work continued over into his new life, and they’d clearly wanted to follow up on one particular test subject.

The aftermath. Bucky wasn’t quite enhanced, but a lot of things made more sense now. His terrifying aim and skill that day, running the course. His keen senses. His reflexes. 

The police reports. A few domestic disturbance reports from neighbors, who’d called in with concerns about raised voices and shattering glass. A gut-wrenching one attached to a hospital report, that ended with - “ _ Patient denied continued care and was discharged AMA. _ ” Other reports that did slightly more than hint at the map of grief and pain that was the later period of Bucky’s relationship with…

Steve slams the folder shut, closes his eyes, and prays to a God he stopped believing in after burying his mother in the freshly thawed spring ground in 1935, prays for the strength not to kill Brock Rumlow, for the strength to save Bucky Barnes, for the strength to keep going if he can’t do either.

***

“I got it.” Tony’s voice is hoarse, and Pepper looks up from her tablet; she’d come to sit with him in the early morning of the fifth day. “I found - I think I found it.”

Steve rises shakily from the floor; he’d taken to sleeping on one of the air mattresses Pepper forced Tony to keep in the lab for days that he needed to stay near his experiments. “Really?” Steve tries not to let the hope in his voice get ahead of his reason, but he fails. “Oh my God, really?”

“I think it’s centralizing here” - Tony zooms in on a map at his computer screen - “in this shithole in Newark.”

“Of course it’s in Jersey.” Pepper’s uncharacteristically bitter, and it startles a laugh from Steve’s throat. Tony looks over at him, exhausted but relieved, and Steve laughs for a solid ten seconds before running for the elevators.

“Avengers Assemble,” Tony announces with no modicum of glee, abandoning his station at last to chase after Steve.

They gear up quickly, waiting for the authorization to come in from Fury - “even if we don’t get it, we’re going,” Tony had said firmly, “this is checking the boxes, just in case” - when Steve’s approached by two shadows.

“We are coming.” Wanda stands as tall as she can, meaning her head would just barely brush Steve’s chin in her heeled boots. Pietro wavers behind her, his hands twisting together anxiously. “We want to help.”

“That - that means a lot,” Steve says carefully, initially trying not to phrase this like a rejection. His anxiety gets the better of him, and he fails. “But. No. Absolutely not.”

“We can help,” Pietro says stubbornly. “We - it’s my fault.” He wilts, his face crumbling, and Steve makes a soft noise of surprise, reaching out to grip the willowy teenager by the arm. “If I hadn’t - he wouldn’t have - it’s all-”

“It’s not your fault,” Steve tries not to shake sense into him, but it’s tempting. “I understand that you want to blame yourself, but  _ none  _ of this is your fault, or Wanda’s, or Bucky’s.”  _ If only you extended that same mercy to yourself.  _ He banishes the thought. “Hydra took him. Hydra’s the one at fault. And -” His voice breaks, and Wanda wraps her arms around him without warning, sensing his grief. He doesn’t let go of Pietro. “And they’ve already taken you once. I can’t risk that again. I can’t lose you two. Not you two. They’re not allowed to take you again.”

“We are strong,” Wanda whispers, her arms thin but powerful around him. Pietro’s eyes are red, but he nods quickly in agreement with his twin. 

“You’re seventeen,” Steve points out as gently as he can. “And you’ve been hurt enough by these people. Let me handle this. You’ll see Bucky as soon as we get back from Jersey.”

“Jersey?” Wanda steps back, her eyes blinking in surprise. “You’re going to-”

“Don’t get any wild ideas and follow us,” Steve says sternly, lifting his finger and using his best Captain America voice, the one he used in all those stupid PSA’s schools used in their health classes. 

“Fury says now or never, Cap!” Tony shouts from the far end of the hangar, jogging up to the massive military-style transport they keep for local missions like this.. 

“Thank you, both of you. I’ll keep you updated as much as I can. Stay in the Tower, and don’t leave until we get back.”

“But-” Wanda protests, her skin paling. Pietro wraps an arm around her when she staggers back. Steve will worry about upsetting her later.

“Stay safe.” He sprints for the car, his mind whirring, focused only on the thought of Bucky, safe and warm in his arms, protected from anything else that might hurt him, ever again.

They drive silently through the city, Sam and Clint in the front seat, and Tony keeps an eye on the signal the whole time. Nat's leg bounces, a rare sign of anxiety from the redhead. Thor had been reluctantly left behind given the stealthy nature of the mission; through his own despair, Steve swears he can feel the god sulking across the river

Forty-five minutes later, they pull up in front of an eerie, abandoned factory on the outskirts of Newark. They file out of the car quickly and spread out in one of their stealth formations, Nat and Clint at the front, Sam and Steve behind them, Tony bringing up the rear, wearing protective layers but no suit just yet.

It’s quiet.

Unease drips down Steve’s spine like putrid water while they do a sweep of the area. No sensors. No hideouts. No hidden goons this time.

Just a seemingly abandoned factory, and the soft sound of the beacon pinging on Tony’s device.

They enter cautiously and find it definitely abandoned. Steve’s anxiety is soaring again, and he walks forward, in front of the group, studying their surroundings. Then, he turns over his shoulder to ask Dugan a question.

Not Dugan. 

Clint. 

Steve’s jaw clenches uncontrollably; it’s been almost three years since he slipped into the past without warning. Now, his flashbacks were slightly more predictable, and usually more related to nightmares than waking terror. But he can’t shake the fear that cuts through him, the knowledge that  _ this should be different, they should have seen someone, found something by now  _ -

“There’s nothing under here.” Nat emerges from a nearby hallway, shaking cobwebs out of her hair. “Not even Hydra could create this layer of dust inorganically.”

The beeping that had been issuing from Tony’s device faded suddenly, leaving them in total silence. “It’s gone,” Tony whispers, tapping the device angrily. “It can’t just - no -”

“He isn’t here.” Steve stares around them in disbelief, the hope in his chest collapsing to utter disbelief and despair. “He’s not here.”

“Cap-” Nat lifts her voice like a warning, but Steve’s walking away from the group, and it’s 1935 at his mother’s funeral, it’s 1945 watching a friend be shot, it’s 2016 and not all at once, and the panic rises to a new height inside of him, the likes of which he didn’t even feel when he pointed that plane downwards and buried himself in a blanket of ice.

Steve grips his shield in one hand and slams it through the wall of the factory; the echo of the metal carving through cement doesn’t come close to the echo of whatever was left of his heart shattering, leaving behind irrevocable scars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're ready to kill me, know that:
> 
> In chapter 19, Bucky fails at being a damsel in distress  
> And in Chapter 20, he's freed
> 
> Both chapters are written. The only question is - when will I stay awake long enough to edit and post them !?!?
> 
> (anyway, That leaves us 21/22 for some recuperation and cuddles)
> 
> Thanks for not being too angry with me, friends!


	19. Day Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is prepped for the chair.
> 
>  
> 
> But, Bucky isn't going down without a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky POV
> 
> This chapter picks up, time-wise, roughly where the last chapter ended (aka Hydra really wanted Cap/Avengers in the wrong place for this stage of their plan)
> 
>  
> 
> **Warnings - This chapter is a doozy/most violent chapter in the fic**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> More terrifying Brock/Bucky interactions
> 
> Bucky is threatened with the chair/wiping
> 
> Bucky is mistreated/shocked with electricity/struck
> 
> Bucky's in a bad headspace
> 
> And namely: gun violence, mildly graphic at times (mentions of blood from gunshot wounds, etc)

Bucky had fought an infection for a few days - the scientists had clucked disapprovingly when he was wracked with a terrible fever by the end of his second day.

“Clean him up,” was all Wallman had to say as Bucky sagged against his restraints and dry-heaved onto the floor, his body twitching. 

One scientist had been human enough to stand near him and mop his brow on the third day; she even slipped him some real ice chips a few times, her brow furrowed.

“Why are you here?” Bucky whispered up to her, half in a daze, a concoction moving sluggish and sticky through the needles into his body. “Did you know what they were?”

She eyed the door and shook her head, pale under her light brown skin. Bucky had made a noise of either sympathy or disbelief - hard to tell in the storm that was his head - and she went back to cleaning his face. 

She didn’t come back the next day.

On the fifth day, though, Bucky is auspiciously cleared for … something. He’s told it’s auspicious, at least, that he should be  _ proud,  _ that he’s going to make the world  _ better,  _ and all he manages to do is spit at the exalting scientist’s feet. 

It earns him a slap across the face, and the scientist is wearing a ring; his cheekbone splits, and the sharp pain of it adds to his already cacophonous headache. Blood slips towards his jaw, but Bucky’s beyond caring about something as little as that, not when they all look so fucking happy.

Nazis looking that happy generally isn’t a good thing.

Brock Rumlow appears after the scientists peel away to fuss over something at their screens, and he oversees Bucky being let down from the table, his forearms bound in some creepy, metal case that he has to hold awkwardly in front of his body, his hands and wrists dangling from it. He’s pushed and shoved down a sterile hallway with fluorescent lights; Bucky looks around, trying to get his bearings, but there’s no identifying marks, no floor numbers, nothing that could tell him if he’s fifty feet off the ground, or below it.

His feet stumble a few times, and disgustingly, it’s Brock that holds him up, not a scientist or a guard. When they near a door at the end of the hallway, he turns his head and sees a guard room, one with the door open. There’s a map displayed on one of the security feeds. Bucky squints at it, forcing himself to focus through the pain in his head, in his cheek, in his shoulder. 

The door shuts. They pass it. Brock wrenches his head forward. 

“Eyes front, Jamie.”

The scientists peel off at the ominous door, shaking hands with Brock and another guard. The rest of the group, Bucky included, walk into the creepiest lab yet.

This one is almost entirely bare, other than wires thicker than pythons rising up from the ground and leading to a chair. It looks like an electric chair in a Tarantino nightmare, and Bucky knows pretty much one thing at this point.

He’s not sitting in that fucking chair.

Bucky balks, but he’s shoved forward again, two guards flanking him.

“Now, Jamie, I’m not going to watch this first part,” Brock drawls. “I’m told that it’s … messy, until we reach compliance.”

_ Compliance _ ?

Bucky stares down at his feet, forcing his brain to figure this out, but  _ fuck,  _ everything hurts. His feet are bare and filthy, blood and some other unpleasant things on his skin. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of stained sweatpants by this point, the aggravated scar tissue of his left shoulder exposed to the cold air. Still, he’s on his feet.

He’s got a pretty strong feeling that he won’t be on his feet again if they get him in that chair.

“I know you’ll be worried,” Brock continues, no idea of the rebellion building steadily like an avalanche inside Bucky’s body. “You’re so good at worrying. But this is to make you better. You were already  _ something.  _ Hydra’s going to make you  _ everything _ .” He grins, and it crawls up Bucky’s spine, and he sags slightly, leaning slightly against the men on either side of him, knowing it will make him look weaker if he can’t stand up straight. 

“Knew you were special, Jamie.”

_ I hate that name, Brock, cut it out -  _

“Natural skill, accidental improvement, plus the attention of Hydra’s biggest...irritation.” Brock smirks, and Bucky feels the urge to snarl pulling up from inside him, a feeling he’s never had before. “How do you think Cap will respond when he hears what we’ve made of you? Do you think he’ll cry for you?”

Bucky doesn’t think, just lifts his arms, ignoring the screaming in his left shoulder joint, and slams his cuffs into the side of Brock’s jaw. It earns him an immediate jolt in his side, and he’s down on his knees, or he would be if the guards on either side of him hadn’t caught him and propped him up between them. 

“Put him in the chair, and wipe him,” the thing that used to be Brock snarls, wiping his mouth and leaving the room. 

Bucky eyes the chair behind him and starts to thrash against the men holding him, his feet scrambling on the floor, the friction making his soles burn. “Wipe? What the fuck does that mean?” He demands of one of the Hydra goons holding him up. “What does it mean?”

The guy spits something back in Russian, and yeah that’s fuckin’ typical, so Bucky repeats the question, and then again in Romanian, and then again in Yiddish, and he gets no answers, just gets himself dragged across the floor. He drops, boneless, in their arms, making it harder to carry him, and he slams into the ground with little courtesy for his well-being.

His left arm aches from whatever the fuck they injected him with, and his stomach aches from where they hit him, and his head pounds unbearably from probably dehydration and whatever the fuck they injected him with.

_ He’s going to die. _

It becomes suddenly, painfully clear that he’s being dragged off to die, and Bucky’s not given much thought to death since the last time Brock Rumlow had him in a corner, but it doesn’t mean he’s inclined to just  _ giving up.  _ Not now, when he has so much to live for, when he has his job, and his students, and Wanda and Pietro, who’ve become as good as family, and  _ Steve,  _ who  _ is  _ his family, his heart, his home. 

Steve, who isn’t Captain America at all, but a good man, a man with a heart so good and kind and uncomplicated that the serum that should have killed him turned him into something beautiful and terrible instead and let him live all the way into a second century, let him spend some time with Bucky, let him fall in love a second time, let him live well past the point a too scrawny kid from Brooklyn with bad lungs and a bad attitude should have lived.

The Hydra agents are laughing at him, pointing at the chair with their hands on their knees as they peer into his face, mocking him in Russian; and all Bucky can see is Steve, his halo of gold hair, his bright blue eyes, his long fingers and quirked-up smile, and five o’clock shadow at ten in the goddamn morning. Steve Rogers never backed down from a fight, not in 1925, or 1935, or 1945, and certainly not now. 

Bucky’s going to die in this room, sure, but he’s going to die the way Steve Rogers died in ‘45. 

The guards are talking to each other, so they’re caught off guard when Bucky surges to his feet, off balance slightly from the way his hands are bound in front of him. He uses the angle to slam his head under the jaw of the shorter one, and kicks the other one viciously on the inside of the thigh. Judging by the squall of pain, he got some testicles in that kick, so yeah, that’s a good start.

It’s a matter of muscle memory that has Bucky gripping the pistol off the hip of the guy now clutching his nose and shouting in a mixture of Russian and English, and it takes him a second to think about it with his hands bound, but then he raises the gun, adjusts, and takes aim. 

Two bullets later, and both guards are down. They’re not getting back up. 

_ He always was a good shot.  _

An alarm starts to sound above him, so Bucky kneels and grabs the key fob off the second guard - his cuffs light up and click, the mechanism releasing, and he doesn’t even stop to rub the blood back into his wrists.

Instead, he grabs the rifle from the second guard, the machine gun from the first. 

There’s the sound of pounding feet in the corridor, and Bucky really, really wants to throw up. Really. 

But instead, he slings the machine gun over his shoulder - he’ll figure out how to use that...later - and props the rifle up onto his shoulder, his left arm screaming in protest. 

The door opens, and he fires. And then he fires again. And again. 

Three guards join the first two, blood leaking out from their heads, and he doesn’t have time to panic or vomit or scream. He’s silent as he walks through the bloodied room, collecting guns and ammo from the dead guards; he walks away from the chair, away from the smell of copper that stains the air, away from whatever Rumlow had planned for him.

He shoots again when he’s in the hallway, this time with a pistol, and he twists when he hears shouting behind him, and it’s just as eerily easy as it was the first time, a  _ bang,  _ and they’re dead. 

Bucky thinks he should feel  _ something  _ at this point, but all he can think is  _ not going down without a fight,  _ and all he can think is  _ blond hair, blue eyes, wide smile,  _ and,  _ I can do this all day,  _ and his feet move forward, and his gun keeps firing. Hydra keeps falling. Bucky reloads. He blinks. His body hurts. He fires again.

When he comes to a door that doesn’t automatically open, he stands there, blood dripping from the cut under his eye, his arm throbbing, body swaying, pumped full of whatever the fuck was in that IV, and he waits, for the door to open, or for death, or for rescue - he isn’t really sure anymore.

And while he waits, no less than eighteen bodies behind him, he wonders if Steve will be proud of him, when he finds out.

He isn’t really sure anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, how about that Modern Coffeeshop AU, huh? Alpha!Captain Steve and Modern!Omega Bucky as the sweet-faced, sharp-tongued coffeehouse employee? Hm? That sounds nice, doesn't it? Like, zero bad things happen, outside misunderstandings? Sounds...super nice, doesn't it?  
>  
> 
> [The next chapter...is _not_ Steve POV.]
> 
> [Hides deeper in bush I've planted to hide after unresolved updates]


	20. Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone comes to rescue Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:
> 
> Continued violence!!!

Wanda crosses her thin arms in front of the chest and scowls in the direction of the armored car that’s pulling away. Her eyes glow red for a brief moment, until her twin grasps her shoulder.

“Wanda?” 

“He does not listen!” She throws her hands in the air, and a few nearby items - a tire, a few metal trolleys, and another car - shift several feet away from her. Pietro eyes them warily and then snorts.

“It is not one of his better skills. What were you thinking?”

Wanda turns her massive eyes on him, and Pietro gazes back for a second before nodding. “You had a vision.”

“I had a vision.” Wanda nods, her eyes clouding for a moment. “It is … bad. I can hear him, see him, feel his pain.”

“You slept all day yesterday,” Pietro points out, scratching behind his ear, eyes darting around the hangar.

Wanda nods again, her jaw tight, and Pietro wraps a comforting arm around her shoulder. “He is tired. But he is still there. Calling to me.”

“You know where he is?’

“I do. It is not this  _ Jersey.  _ I can see it, almost. It is …” She trails off and gestures in a different direction. Pietro thinks for a second. 

“North. That is north.”

They’re silent for a long moment, leaning on each other in the abandoned hangar, before Wanda straightens up, determination flashing in her eyes, swallowing out the red.

“Pietro? How bad is to be grounded?” Wanda’s eyes lock onto the quinjet, sitting in the corner of the hangar.

“Not bad at all, sis.” Pietro grins, already static with anticipatory glee. “Are we thinking joyride?”

“In a way.” Wanda sighs as they stroll over to the jet. “Do you know how to open one of these? I could, I just worry about damaging it-”

As she speaks, the ramp lowers, and Pietro raises his eyebrows in genuine surprise. “Getting better every day, huh?”

“I did not do that.”

“I did.” They turn to see Pepper Potts smiling at them. “I heard your conversation. If Captain Rogers gets an idea, he won’t let it go, so there’s no point in calling him back until he realizes he was wrong, or he finds Mr. Barnes. And if your hunch is right, I’ll send the team to your coordinates when they return.”

“Won’t  _ you _ get grounded?” Pietro asks, clearly in concern. 

“Oh, no, Pietro. You’re sweet to be worried.” Her heels click as she walks over to them, and she straightens out the taller Maximoff’s jacket. “But I’m the person who does the grounding.” Her answer is a pair of sharp smiles. “Now, get going.” 

***

“Where is this place?” Pietro asks, peering out the quinjet’s windshield. Wanda barely looks up from where her hand is hovering over the controls, red light flickering eerily in and out, suspended like flames between the dash and her dancing fingers.

She tilts her head. “Close.” The quinjet dives towards the earth gracefully, and Pietro beams at her, obviously proud of her innate talent, allowing her to pilot like a pro despite only being behind the controls for forty-five minutes. The plane’s an object, after all, it occupies physical space, and there’s nothing physical Wanda Maximoff can’t handle. 

Non-physical too, for that matter.

“What is the plan when we find him?” Pietro asks quietly, once they’ve settled behind a thick grove of trees. “He is in there?” There’s a small building up ahead, one that looks like it could be used for local utilities, innocuous. 

Wanda can’t look at it without flinching.

“He is in there.” She closes her eyes, her skin paling.

“What is it?”

“Death.” Wanda stands fluidly from the pilot’s chair and heads for the ramp.

“Bucky is -” Pietro’s at her side in half a millisecond. “No-”

“Bucky is not dead.” Wanda’s hands are in tight fists. “This is something else.” 

They can hear the sounds of gunfire as they creep through the cover of the trees, and then Pietro smirks at his sister. “Shall I look ahead?”

“Please.”

An unnatural breeze ruffles the nearby trees and bends the flowers and grass slightly. There’s barely a blur in the darkness while Pietro cuts through space cleanly towards the compound. He returns less than three seconds later with an access card and a gun.

“Pietro!” Wanda yelps and steps back from the weapon. “We don’t use those!”

“No, but they do.” Pietro manages to shake the cartridge out and chucks the now empty gun into the woods. “Let’s run before that asshole figures out I stole it, huh?”

Wanda nods and lets her brother scoop her up in his arms. “Face,” he reminds her, and she tucks her nose into his chest. Another unnatural breeze cuts through the clearing; when Pietro comes to a graceful stop, Wanda turns around to smile at the very surprised guard at the door.

He reaches for his gun; the holster is empty.

“Girl scout cookies?” Pietro asks cheerfully, and Wanda lifts a hand. The guard goes down, hard, and only a flick of Wanda’s wrist stops him from hitting the ground with a noticeable thud.

“Cameras,” she gasps, looking up when her brother lowers her to the ground.

“What am I -  _ amateur _ ?” Pietro snorts and pulls a handful of wires from his jacket pocket. “Took them out already.”

His sister giggles and waves the access card in front of the pad. It clicks, and the door swings open. “Do you think they will find it out that their cameras do not work?” She hisses as they walk silently forward.

“I think they are … distracted.” A siren is wailing when they enter the building, lights flashing down the length of the hallway. More gunfire echoes, getting louder and louder the deeper into the building they go.

“Does he even need rescuing?” Pietro asks, eyes wide. 

“He needs our help,” Wanda answers, clutching her brother’s hand tightly. “There is someone - nearby - we - I know him - Pietro, I  _ know _ him-”

“Who is -”

His question is answered before it’s finished when they turn the corner and see Brock Rumlow glaring up at the internal security feed. There’s a massive, bolted door that goes deeper into the compound, but this is the end of the rabbit’s warren for now. The only way out is through him.

Wanda’s shaking violently, so it’s Pietro who speaks.

“Long time, no see, asshole.”

Brock looks around and startles for half a second, before his scarred features are controlled again. “Ah, the twins. Come to get your friend?” He nods his chin up to the camera display. “James Barnes is no saint. I’m not sure he should be around children.”

Neither of them take the bait; their eyes remain fixed on Rumlow, who’d been among their chief torturers with Hydra. 

“Move,” Pietro says with finality, his hand still tight around Wanda’s.

“Or I’ll move you.” She sounds braver than she looks and feels. 

Brock sighs, appearing totally unafraid - except for his eyes. Harder to hide the fear there. ““You two were so powerful; you could shape the world.” His hand inches towards the knife at his side. “With Hydra, you still could.”

“With Hydra, we’d still be chained,” Pietro snaps, “Abused. Tortured. You stole us. You killed our family!”

Wanda squeezes his hand, and he takes a deep breath, settles slightly. Brock smirks.

“Hydra made you better. We made you what you are.”

“That is not true,” Wanda whispers, her cheeks flushing. “Our parents made us what we are. Our family.”

Brock continues like she hadn’t spoken, inching closer and closer towards them.

“You two were so promising. Hydra’s most promising assets. Barnes, too - very promising. We just want to help you reach your potential, fulfill that promise.”

Pietro laughs, abruptly. “Is he - Wanda, is he making a Nazi recruitment speech?”

“He is making a Nazi recruitment speech.” Wanda tilts her head to the side, the red flickering to life in her eyes. Brock swallows audibly.

“My sister and I,” Pietro lets go of Wanda’s hand to wrap an arm around her shoulders, “We are studying to become citizens of the United States. And we learned about rights. One of them is - freedom of speech, yes?”

“That’s right,” Brock nods, clearly trying to get ahead of this. “Hydra has nothing wrong with that - we just want to make sure people can -”

“Wanda,” Pietro keeps going, talking over Brock, whose voice dies in his throat at the ripple of power than emanates from the smaller twin, “Freedom of speech. This means that he is  _ allowed  _ to make Nazi recruitment speeches at us?”

Wanda walks out from underneath her brother’s arm, her coat floating away from her body, and the camera feeds go black, all the electric equipment in the room failing at once. Brock stumbles back towards the door to get away from her.

“No, no, no.” Wanda tilts her head and smiles at Rumlow, who fumbles for the door behind him.

It’s unlocked.

It still doesn’t open.

Red flames hold it in place with the barest of efforts, as Wanda drifts towards him slowly. “No, Pietro. You are mistaken. Free speech means the government cannot stop this man from making Nazi recruitment speech.”

Rumlow honestly flinches when a girl almost a full foot shorter than himself lifts a slender, manicured hand, red twining from finger to finger, flickering like unholy northern lights.

“But we” - she smiles, all teeth - “are not the government.”

He’s pinned up against the wall a second later, red wrapping like a noose around his neck.

“You gonna kill me, Red?” Brock coughs weakly, and Wanda still creeps forward, fury and power rolling off of her in equal waves.

“No.” She blinks once, slower than the curve of time itself, and Brock wheezes for breath. Then, she tilts her head with a smile. “But he might.”

“Who, your broth-”

Her hair is only slightly ruffled by the shield that flies forward from the darkness, embedding itself in the door behind him. 

“Took you long enough,” Wanda says by way of greeting, and Pietro smirks and saunters out of the way as Steve Rogers sprints into the room. The Maximoffs both step back, not wanting to get in the way of their friend, whose fury is palpable in the small control room.

“Where is he?” Steve demands, his hands already around Brock’s throat.

“Good trick, stealing the quinjet.” Iron Man clunks into the room, eyeing the Maximoffs who look utterly unrepentant. “Pepper help you?” They both nod with matching grins, and they all walk forward to offer their support to Steve, who might just be on the edge of eradicating one more Hydra member.

“You want your Bucky back?” Rumlow spits. “He’s ours - you’ll never see him again, and even if you  _ do,  _ you won’t like what you find.”

“What are you talking about?” Steve stands, lifting Rumlow with him by the neck. His hand tightens, and Rumlow chokes; Steve throws him bodily across the room and wrenches the shield out of the door. He’s inches away from hurling it into the man who’s still laughing when Wanda gasps.

“He’s there!” She lifts a hand and strides forward. “He’s just behind here.”

That distracts Steve from his rage for a second, and Tony trains his blasters on the fallen Rumlow to keep him pinned. Wanda concentrates briefly, her brow furrowed, and then the door slides open with little effort.

On the other side, is a bruised, filthy, and exhausted Bucky Barnes, clutching a rifle, which he has aimed right at Steve.

“Buck.” Steve raises his hands, the earnestness blinding. “It’s me. It’s Steve, I’m here. You’re - you’re safe now.”

Bucky stares at him wildly, and it carves at Wanda to see a kind man look so broken. There’s a painful moment that borders on the infinite where the gun doesn’t lower. Steve doesn’t drop his hands, or go for his shield; he just waits patiently for the man he loves to recognize him. Wanda swallows back unexpected tears.

“ _ Buck _ .” Steve takes a step forward, and Bucky jerks back. “Don’t you recognize me? It’s me. Bashert, remember? You and me, ‘til the end of the line,” he’s almost babbling, and his body is wracked with sobs, “Please, Buck, I found you, it’s going to be okay.”

Bucky drops the gun with a clatter and sobs to match Steve. “Stevie-”

He almost falls to the floor, and Steve dives to catch him, crying into his filthy, bedraggled hair. “Baby,” Steve moans. “I found you, I found you sweetheart.” They’re a sobbing mess, and Wanda smiles at them with great affection.

That is, until something twitches in her field of vision. 

“Shoulda known we’d have a failsafe,” Brock sneers, clicking something in his hand. She doesn’t understand, not at first, but then Bucky screams, inhumanly, writhing in Steve’s arms. 

“Buck?” Steve pats his body wildly. “What’s happening? What’s wrong-”

Blood pours from Bucky’s nose while he convulses, and Brock laughs, cruelly.

He’s still laughing when Tony’s gauntlets power up, one of the beams of light striking him in the chest. Brock collapses, and whatever he was doing stops. 

Bucky’s still. Too still.

Wanda has to hold onto Pietro for support when the wave of grief erupts from Steve Rogers like a tsunami.

***

A day later, they crowd into the recovery room on the thirty-fifth floor of Avengers Tower. Bucky made it through surgery - a collapsed lung, broken ribs, and increased damage to his already damaged shoulder - and is now resting with multiple drugs coursing through his system, trying to clear up what Hydra had done. They aren’t sure what happened, but Wanda and Dr. Cho both seem to think he’ll make a full recovery. 

Steve just wants him to open his eyes.

For now, though, he sits at Bucky’s side, holding his hand, silently promising over, and over, and over again to the universe that he’ll never let go. Never again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3
> 
>  
> 
> Fluff/mild flangst/mostly fluff/and smut in the next two chapters. Chapter 22 is epilogue!


	21. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky Barnes wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the first time in this fic, POV shifts mid-chapter. It'll be denoted by a double asterisk for POV change **, and triple for time-jump ***
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Warnings**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Lots of feelings
> 
> Consensual, loving sex (oral and anal)

Bucky regrets opening his eyes, pretty much immediately.

He’s in so much pain, he thinks for a solid ten seconds that he’s still with Hydra; his head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton, and then there’s the matter of the dull, roaring pain his left side. He can hear his heart rate accelerate on the monitor next to him, so Bucky tries to calm himself. They aren’t actively hurting him right now, probably because he’s asleep, so he just needs to calm down, and figure out what they did to him while he was out, and -

His eyes move around the room and land on the man sitting next to him.

More correctly, sleeping next to him.

Steve Rogers is crammed into a straight-backed chair, long legs sprawled out, massive arms crossed in front of his chest. His head is tipped back, and he’s snoring, sawing logs, absolutely cracking corn, loud enough that it covers up most of the sound of the machines Bucky’s hooked up to.

God, he loves him.

It settles over him like a blanket, soft and soothing and overpowering all at once. Steve Rogers is sleeping in a too-small chair at Bucky’s bedside, waiting for him to wake up. Judging by the beard he’s sporting, it’s been at least a few days; he feels slightly guilty that Steve’s been uncomfortable for that long, but it fades quickly into sleepy affection, and Bucky’s eyes start to droop.

He falls asleep with a smile on his face.

***

The second time he wakes up, he’s in pain again, and he hisses when he comes to.

Steve’s on him in a second. “What hurts?” He demands, hands hovering over Bucky’s body protectively, like he can physically pull out the bad things battling inside of Bucky right now.

He snorts, and then winces. “Back off, Rogers.” His voice sounds drier than a raisin in the desert on a hot day. Not the best simile. Whatever. He’s pretty fucked up right now.

Steve backs off, almost embarrassingly quick, his hands pulled to his chest as he sits back in his chair, eyes wide.

Bucky shifts, sliding his legs slightly against the soft sheets of the bed. “Not that far,” he whines. Steve leans forward again, a small smile on his stupidly handsome face, and Bucky laughs.

It rips through him like _fire,_ it hurts so bad to laugh, the muscles in his side twinging in complaint - broken ribs, something Bucky’s familiar with at this point - his chest aching, and even his face hurting from the strain of it. But Bucky laughs, and laughs, because Steve Rogers is still sitting here, like the big idiot he is, and they love each other.

_Fuck Hydra._

Steve laughs too, a slightly cracked, frayed sound, more ragged than Bucky remembers, but his hands frame Bucky’s face, trembling with what feels like both relief, and home, and Bucky closes his eyes, less afraid of what he’ll find when he opens them again.

***

He manages to stay awake the next time, and he even gets propped up on some pillows. It helps that Tony, and not Steve, is there when he wakes up, and Tony is more busy with a tablet than fussing directly over Bucky (but, he has half a feeling that this was a particular choice on Tony’s part - to not let Bucky see how worried he is).

“Gave us quite the scare, Buckaroo.” Tony sets the tablet aside once the nurse has helped Bucky sit all the way up; he holds onto his left side with a wince, his nose quirking up. He can feel the stubble on his cheeks, but his hair, thankfully, is clean.

“What day is it?”

“Tuesday,” Tony offers unhelpfully. Bucky glares at him, or at least, his facial muscles attempt to let him glare, and Tony looks more amused than anything. “Calm down, calm down, don’t … bust a stitch, or whatever. Seriously. Don’t bust a stitch. Steve will drop me out that window.” He nods his head to the massive window that fills up an entire wall of the recovery room.

“What is the _date_ , Tony?” Bucky tries again, licking his dry lip and wincing at the splits he finds there.

Tony hands him a cup of ice chips, and even thoughtfully holds it in place for him, so Bucky doesn’t have to use his left arm; he can just use his right hand to pop a few cool, refreshing pieces of ice in his mouth. It hits like _heaven,_ and Bucky wants to moan.

All over some ice chips. Yikes.

“April 19th, 2016.”

“Fuck.” Bucky wheezes slightly and clutches his side. “Fucking - who the fuck wrote my sub plans?”

Tony stares at him like he’s grown three heads.

“I’ve missed two weeks of school!” Bucky clutches his head and moans. “Oh no, oh, fuck me, we were just about to start our unit on the Vietnam War in US, and -”

“I had a SHIELD employee with teaching experience write your sub plans, James.” Pepper sweeps in, and Tony looks at her the way a drowning man looks at a life preserver. “Don’t worry about a thing. Your school understands, and your principal has a vague idea of what happened. She wishes you a speedy recovery.” Pepper sits on the arm of Tony’s chair and smiles beatifically. With the light from the window shining in on her, she really does look like an angel. “As do we all.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Bucky says weakly, sagging back against his pillows, his head returning to its previous dull, thudding pain. His body trembles slightly, like he’s just run a marathon, and not had a mild freakout over work. “I can’t believe I slept for two weeks.”

He’d sleep for two more, if they let him.

“Sixteen days,” Tony corrects automatically, and Pepper shoves his shoulder lightly. “Hey! It’s pertinent to his recovery.”

“It’s not pertinent for you to always be right, Tony.” They exchange a love that’s full of love and affection, and Bucky smiles at it, even as something desperate and sad forms in his brain.

_Where did Steve go?_

His eyes flicker to the door, and it’s like Pepper Potts reads his mind.

“He had to step away to assist Clint with something,” she says soothingly, reaching out to rest a hand on Bucky’s shin. “He’ll be back momentarily.”

As if on cue, the door slides open, and Steve walks in, his mouth tight, his shoulders even tighter, his hands balled into fists at his sides. His face looks haggard under the thick beard, and his hair looks like it’s seen better days. Bucky feels a surge of anxiety rise up inside him at the expression Steve’s wearing, like something’s shattered inside of him. For all his size, he looks small.

Then, he looks up.

“Buck-” He flies across the room, hope mangled on his handsome face, and drops to his knees at Bucky’s side; Tony and Pepper watch with varied degrees of fascination and affection from the other side of the bed. “Oh, God, Buck-”

“Hey, sweetheart.” Bucky manages to smile, tears still in his eyes; whatever was crumbling away inside of Steve Rogers a minute ago seems to have disappeared, and in its place is an inferno of barely restrained elation. “Did ya miss me?”

“Missed you so much.” Steve’s hand wipes some of Bucky’s hair off his sweaty brow, and Bucky wrinkles his nose in embarrassment. “Fuck, I went out of my mind without you.”

“We were there,” Tony points out, and Bucky reluctantly turns away from his in-depth study of Steve’s ludicrously attractive mug to glare at him.

“That’s our cue.” Pepper stands and offers her hand to Tony. “Let’s leave them be for now.”

“But we still have to go over-”Tony points at the monitor, and Bucky’s frown deepens.

“Later,” Pepper orders, and she grips him by the elbow to haul him to the door (all the while looking like it requires no effort on her part).

When the door hisses shut behind them, Steve returns to his anxious patting of every inch of Bucky, over the blankets. “Fuck.” He sniffles, and Bucky’s surprised to see him crying. “How - how do you feel?”

“Like shit,” Bucky answers easily, too tired to even shrug. “Happy to see you, though.”

“Yeah?” Steve sags slightly and rests his head on Bucky’s hip, having moved his ass to a more appropriate place on a chair pulled up to the bed. Bucky’s able to lift his right hand and slowly drag his fingers through Steve’s messy hair.

Steve closes his eyes and turns his face into Bucky’s hip entirely, still slightly shaking with something unspoken. Bucky gives him a few minutes to work it out; his eyes almost close again, the urge to nap very, very powerful.

“I love you,” Steve whispers, and Bucky’s awake enough to smile back.

“Love you too, Stevie.”

“I - I don’t know what I woulda done if - if we - if you hadn’t -”

“Can you forgive me?” Bucky swallows, nervous suddenly. He doesn’t … know if Steve’s aware of what he did.

“For what?” Steve sits upright, and Bucky detangles his fingers from his hair as he does. Steve takes his now-empty hand between his own and brings it to his lips to kiss tenderly. “What could I possibly forgive you for?”

“I killed all those men,” Bucky whispers. “It was - it was so easy, Steve.”

“It was you or them, sweetheart.” Steve shakes his head and squeezes his hand so tight it almost hurts. Bucky must make some sound of pain because Steve releases him automatically, looking contrite. “Don’t feel bad about that for a second-”

“I don’t.” Bucky stares at the ceiling and grits his teeth. “That’s - that’s what I’m worried about. I wasn’t afraid of killing them. I wasn’t afraid of what it would do to me. I was just afraid that you’d think less of me.”

“Why would I?” Steve manages to worm his way into Bucky’s line of vision, where he hangs like a surly, avenging angel. “Huh? I’m so fuckin’ proud of you.”

“Proud?”

“Yeah, proud. My boyfriend saved himself, and took down almost an entire Hydra squadron by himself, after days of tor-” Steve cuts himself off, unable to say the word, and Bucky reaches for him this time. Their fingers tangle together again.

“You woulda done it without killing,” Bucky whispers, shame still burning in his gut. Steve will probably realize that fundamental difference soon enough - and the worst part is, Bucky can’t bring himself to regret what he did. Even if it meant losing Steve - he’d do it again. The anger in him flares, then, sudden and sharp. He’s so fucking angry, and he doesn’t regret what he did.

It should terrify him. It doesn’t.

“I’ve killed.” Steve returns his head to Bucky’s hip with a nonchalant shrug of his superhuman shoulders. “Plenty of times. A lot more men than you did. I can’t say I’m at peace with it, but I certainly don’t regret it. It was me, or them, or my men, or them. Hell, I’ve killed in this century, the government’s just quiet about it.”

It makes sense, so Bucky nods, pain still eating away at him - he’s so, so tired, and Steve seems to catch onto that.

“D’you need to nap, sweetheart?”

“For a few minutes,” Bucky mutters. “Can’t fall asleep for two weeks again.”

“I’ll be waiting for you either way,” Steve says softly, and Bucky smiles, something cool and soothing rushing through his veins; his IV must be set up on some sort of timer. That’s thoughtful. The pain’s a distant memory now, a throb and then nothing but a small echo in the corner of his consciousness, right next to the sound of Steve whispering, “ _Til the end of the line, Buck_.”

***

Another day, and Bucky manages to convince Steve to lie down on the bed with him. They’ve moved him to just the one needle in his right hand, and it’s easy to avoid it as Steve wiggles his way into the bed.

It’s a tight squeeze, and they laugh at first, anxious and giddy and swept up by how _silly_ Steve looks on this tiny mattress, but then Steve swings an arm around Bucky’s waist, and Bucky’s surrounded by Steve, warm and safe at last, and he cries, embarrassingly.

“Don’t cry.” Steve’s nose runs up and down Bucky’s cheek, his hands stroking along his side tenderly, avoiding the still sore spots on his side (even if Dr. Cho’s a miracle worker, Bucky’s still got some healing to do). “Hey, don’t cry, babydoll, don’t cry.”

The message is a little lost considering Steve’s crying too, and they wind up laughing again, their legs twined together, Steve’s too-big body crammed onto the mattress. He’d crush Bucky if it weren’t for how carefully he holds himself, almost lifted up on one elbow as he rubs his nose against Bucky’s tenderly, making soft noises in the back of his throat.

They kiss then, long and hard, Steve’s hand cradling his jaw as he tilts his head to the side; Bucky swears it tastes like victory.

***

On the 22nd, Wanda and Pietro sneak in, hand-in-hand, a basket in Wanda’s free hand.

“I heard you two risked _permanent grounding_ ,” Bucky says, smiling widely at them. “All to save little old me?”

“It was worth it,” Pietro assures him with a grin of his own. He plunks down in the chair Steve had abandoned an hour ago - some minor diplomatic mission needed his attention, and he’d mulishly refused to go until Bucky had prodded him in the knee and scolded him for treating him like porcelain, especially given that Steve wouldn’t even be leaving the Tower, just taking a call in a secure room.

Wanda curls up at the foot of Bucky’s bed and rests the basket on the blankets between them. “How tired are you?” She asks, and Bucky thinks it’s sweet that she’d bother to ask, considering the small fact that she knows _everything._ “I like to be polite,” she points out a second later, and it gets a laugh out of Bucky.

“Not as tired as I’ve been.” He gets a real, one-shouldered shrug in, which feels more like an accomplishment than it should. “And how about you? I heard you and Cho worked pretty hard on my busted up brain there.”

Whatever Hydra had wired into the base of his skull - some strange, circuit-looking thing, the discovery of which had apparently caused Steve to disappear from the debrief (and, by extension, subsequently caused all the reinforced punching bags in the Avengers’ gym to be destroyed) - had been what allowed Rumlow to take him down at the end.

Rumlow was still not responding to their questions, but after Tony had shot him, they’d at least been able to remove his cyanide tooth; he was there to stay, a guest of SHIELD, until they got answers.

So, after they’d stabilized Bucky, Cho had worked around the clock to fix the damage to his brain, a hopeless task at first - until Wanda stepped in, jaw set, and rebuilt the pathways herself, easing pieces back together that had, apparently, been irreparably shattered (Bucky’s told by some reliable sources that Steve had hugged Wanda and cried for over ten minutes, until Barton had been able to tug him away from the slightly overwhelmed teenager).

“Not tired at all,” Wanda promises, and then she opens the basket. “I thought - you might like to celebrate with us?”

She pulls out a haggadah, and Bucky’s heart twinges. “Yeah.” He clears his throat blinking away the tears and accepts the haggadah from her. “Yeah, I - I really would.”

Next comes the seder plate, and candles, which she hands to her twin. There’s a strange breeze that passes through the room, and when Bucky blinks once, there are suddenly candles on all the flat surfaces near them, the soft light flickering on the sterile walls of his recovery room. She hands them both a clear cup, which she pours a small amount of grape juice into, and she and Pietro both look eagerly at him.

“Could you -” She clears her throat, a haggadah and cup of juice clutched in her own hands. “Can you start?”

“Of course.” Bucky gives himself one second of being overwhelmed, by love, by grief, by the gut-wrenching way he still misses his family, his mother, his father, his sister, his grandparents - and then he smiles.

“ _Vay'hi erev vay'hi voker yom hashishi...Vay'chulu hashamayim v'haaretz v'chol tz'vaam…_ ”

***

“Do you want me to give you some privacy?” Steve asks nervously. Bucky looks up from his tablet in amusement and quirks an eyebrow.

“Privacy? No, I think I’m fine. How does my hair look?”

“Perfect.” Steve smirks and reaches out. “I can fix that.”

Bucky tsks and smacks his hand away playfully, smoothing a hand through his hair, which is mostly up in a bun on the top of his head. He looks totally unkempt, between the shaggy hair and the stubbly beard, his eyes red-rimmed still, the shadows like bruises cutting deep into his cheekbones.

But, he has to make this call.

He can see his face in the tablet as the calls go through, and then it connects. His face gets shoved to the corner of the screen, and in its place, he can see his classroom, just as he left it, and all nineteen of his AP Seminar students peering into the camera with clear excitement.

“Mr. Barnes!” Tom Myers waves excitedly. “I _knew_ you weren’t dead!”

“Tom!” Marza hisses, leaning forward to smack his head. “Bad Tom!”

“Gave it my best shot,” Bucky laughs, shrugging. There’s no point in lying about that - he looks like shit, no matter how many compliments about _gorgeous_ and _beautiful_ Steve hands him.

Steve smiles at him over the back of the tablet, out of sight as he sits on the end of Bucky’s bed.

“When will you be back?” It’s Olivia that time, who looks surprised that she’s spoken.

Bucky clears his throat. “They aren’t sure,” he answers honestly. “I - there’s some things I need to take care of. And some things that need to be taken care of. It might not...clear up by the end of the school year.”

As he expected, the classroom erupts at the hint of that - “ _Are you coming back at all?” “What happened?”_ And, of course, Tom Myers: “ _If you’re really dying, I’m really sorry for joking about it, Mr. Barnes_ -”

He smiles and waits for them to simmer down, the substitute teacher in the corner of the screen looking a little overwhelmed at the idea of handling all of them.

“I’ll still be your teacher,” he promises. “A friend said he’d make sure we had a decent enough connection that I could instruct you from here.”

This settles them down a little more, but Christophe raises his hand, a sly smile on his face.

“Yes, Christophe?”

“...Is that friend Tony Stark?” The sly smile doesn’t budge.

“Uhhh…”

“Mr. Barnes?” Jayden doesn’t wait to be called on. “Are you friends with Mr. Stark through Captain Rogers?”

“Well, about that…” Bucky eyes Steve over the tablet, and his boyfriend is shaking with silent laughter. Bucky’s face is on fire. “Hey,” he hisses, muting the tablet for a second. “I _did_ almost die. You should be nicer to me!”

Steve’s expression flickers towards grief for a second, and Bucky almost regrets the snark - he flicks the sound back on, and he sees that Shana’s hand is raised, even as the class devolves into giggles around her. “Yes, Shana?” He asks warily.

“Are you dating Captain America?”

“Uh.” His mouth closes and opens a few times. “That’s… quite the conjecture.”

“You disappeared around the same time he did.” Shana glares at the screen. “And you’ve been acting weird since that day you two met at the museum.”

“You knew it was --” Bucky blinks and shakes his head. “Uh, I mean-”

Steve pushes Bucky out of the way - and when did he even stand up - to smile and wave at the camera. “Hey, class!”

“Captain Rogers!” Multiple students scream.

“Mr. Barnes needs his rest.” Steve kisses Bucky’s temple and then winks. Bucky’s _mortified,_ but also weirdly pleased by it all. “Stay in school, kids!”

He hangs up and chucks the tablet away from them.

“You’re a monster,” Bucky groans. “An absolute monster.”

“I know,” Steve says happily, wrapping an arm around Bucky’s waist and nuzzling into his jaw. “But I’m your monster.”

******

*******

Dr. Cho allows Bucky to move out of the recovery room and into Steve’s floor before the start of May.

Steve gets accused of being a mother hen more than once in the following week, as Bucky still has some bedrest to get through. When Steve gives Bucky the puppy eyes, he receives an eye roll and an _alright,_ which allows him to flit around and fuss the way he wants to.

Mostly though, they just lie in bed together, Bucky propped up on pillows, and Steve’s head resting on Bucky’s chest, measuring and weighing the value of each and every precious heartbeat under his ear.

***

Therapy begins not too long after Bucky’s return to their floor - and it _is_ their floor, not Steve’s, and it didn’t even sort of feel like home until Bucky, and there’s no chance in hell he’s going back now to the way it was before -and it’s rough.

Physical therapy takes its toll, and Bucky sits in the bathtub after those appointments, staring into space no matter how many nice, smelly bath bombs Steve can find. He at least lets Steve wash his hair for him after physical therapy, his shoulder too sore for him to lift his arm, and Steve can sense how much Bucky hates surrendering that control, admitting that he needs help, so he tries to demonstrate with his touch, and kisses along Bucky’s neck and unruined shoulder, how much he loves him, and what an absolute honor it is to be able to touch him like this.

Therapy for Bucky’s mind is more difficult. Bucky doesn’t talk at all after those appointments, just sits in the dark and doesn’t respond to any questions Steve might ask, for at least three hours after Dr. Eva leaves.

Steve signs up for therapy, too, and Dr. Eva jokes that she should probably move into their floor at this rate. “Don’t offer unless you mean it,” Steve says, only half-joking.

But, Bucky’s getting better, all the time. It’s undeniable, and other than the dark moments after his appointments, he tries not to block Steve out, and Steve tries not to block him out, and they work through it together.

A team. ‘Til the end of the line.

***

In mid-May, Bucky initiates something a little unexpected; they’ve been sticking to mostly stolen kisses, and a few sloppy, loving handjobs here and there while Bucky recuperates from almost dying, and Steve recuperates from Bucky almost dying.

But something shifts between them, and Steve finds himself lying between Bucky’s legs, their shirts already abandoned somewhere on the floor, his mouth working at the soft, salty skin above Bucky’s waistband.

It takes little to no effort to lift Bucky’s hips off the bed, Steve’s hand firm under his ass, and work his pajama pants down his legs. Steve mouths along Bucky’s half-hard cock, and he’s driven crazy by the smell of him, the taste of him when he runs his tongue around the head.

“ _Steve_ -” A broken sound comes out of Bucky’s mouth, and Steve continues his tender exploration of Bucky’s cock. His own erection presses against his zipper, so he climbs out of his jeans and returns to his spot between Bucky’s legs to continue his meandering journey. Bucky’s eyes are glassy, his chest flushed, when Steve begins to suckle at the end of his cock, slow and easy and careful.

“What do you want, Buck?” Steve rests his chin on Bucky’s thigh and continues to jerk him off slowly, his hand slipping up and over his head, twisting the way Bucky likes, enjoying the way his breath hitches audibly, little puffs of air escaping Bucky’s plush mouth, his lips stained so much from Steve’s biting kisses, he might as well be wearing lipstick.

“Want you to fuck me,” Bucky answers breathlessly, and it’s a punch to the gut.

“Are you sure?” Steve doesn’t relent in his pace, still stroking Bucky’s cock, his surprise not stopping his hand.

“Of course I’m sure,” Bucky huffs impatiently. “Wanted your cock since the second we met, Rogers.”

“You didn’t even know it was Captain America you were talking to,” Steve teases him.

“Don’t care,” his boyfriend props himself up on his elbows to study his face, and then, Steve’s hand does slow, at the intensity in his stare. “I didn’t - I didn’t fall in love with you because you were Captain America. I fell in love with you because you’re a good man, and I trust you. I fell in love with Steve Rogers, and I would have fallen in love with him even when he was a scrawny little punk from Brooklyn who didn’t know when to back away from a fight.”

Steve can’t breathe for a second, Bucky’s found what he needs to hear so badly, and he’s just - he’s just _said_ it, almost blithely, almost like he has no idea what those words can do to him.

“I love you too,” he mumbles out quickly, crawling carefully up Bucky’s lean frame - leaner, since Hydra - to catch his lips in a searing kiss. “I love you,” he repeats, resting his forehead on Bucky’s forehead. “I’ll love you ‘til I die, Buck-”

“Which will be never,” Bucky says blithely. Something cold smacks into Steve’s arm; he looks over and sees that somehow, Bucky’s managed to chuck a bottle of lube at him, the lube usually stashed in their bedside drawer.

They work up to a finger, and then two - Bucky makes the most beautiful sound when Steve crooks his finger against the spot inside his body, a sound almost like singing, but holier, and his hair fans out around him on the pillow as he gasps, his cheeks turning redder and redder.

He looks like something out of a fairy tale, something beautiful and untouchable, and Steve almost comes without touching himself when Bucky’s body takes three fingers with little to no resistance.

“Do you want more?” He asks, unsure of himself until the last, and Bucky grips his wrist.

“Is ‘more’ your cock?” Bucky counters, licking his bottom lip out of habit, but also successfully turning Steve on more.

“It is,” Steve laughs. “Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be. Should we use those Asgardian condoms?”

Steve freezes - “Uh - we - we can?”

“I’m just fuckin’ with ya.” Bucky snorts and shakes his head. “You can’t get STIs, which I don't have, thank you very much, and I really don’t mind skipping the condom-”

“Oh,” Steve blushes and nods, and blushing is ridiculous considering he’s about to fuck this man. He doesn’t have to blush.

They apply a generous amount of lube, and Steve goes slow enough that he bites through the skin on the fist he pops in his mouth, trying not to moan so loud that JARVIS will ask if one of them requires medical assistance (Something he’ll never live down, he’s sure). It takes a while, and he doesn’t go all the way in, maybe half; just enough to fuck in and out of Bucky to the point where his sweetheart’s eyes roll back in his head, soft noises slipping out between his clenched teeth as he grows tighter and tighter around Steve’s cock, hot and sweet enough that Steve’s going to _lose_ it, whether or not he picks up the pace.

When he wraps his hand around Bucky’s cock, though, it only takes a few seconds before Bucky’s coming with a sharp gasp, his back arching off the bed hard enough that Steve’s worried about him re-injuring himself. He slips out, petting Bucky’s side, as he comes down from his orgasm, and he kisses his collarbone and jaw tenderly.

“You didn’t finish,” Bucky says with a frown, and Steve frowns back at him.

“You came?” Steve shrugs and starts to stroke his own cock. “It’s bad - _ah_ \- etiquette for me to k-keep going.”

“Oh. I guess I didn’t think about it like that.”

Steve’s close to coming as it is, and when Bucky reaches down and rubs his thumb around the head of Steve’s cock, it’s game over. He comes with a shout, some of it splattering on Bucky and the sheets, but most of it on himself, and Bucky pulls him in for a filthy kiss.

They clean up together, lazily rubbing washcloths over each other in the shower until Bucky’s eyes droop, and his head drops to Steve’s chest. He finishes cleaning both of them off before he turns off the water, and they return to bed, Bucky wrapped up in a towel and comfortable and safe in Steve’s arms.

***

One night, Steve can’t stop tossing and turning; he knows he’s disturbing Bucky’s sleep, so he drags himself out of bed to sit elsewhere. He stares at Bucky, asleep, covered by multiple blankets, mouth half-open while he breathes heavily. He memorizes the way he looks, in their bed. Perfect. Safe. Then, he closes the door and heads to the sitting room, sinking down on the couch and flipping on the TV.

His brain won’t turn off for days at a time, so he’s taken to watching this very kind man with a curly hair paint trees. It’s...strangely soothing when he can’t get to sleep.

After an hour of drowsily watching his favorite show, JARVIS chimes in with an announcement.

[ _You have a visitor, Captain Rogers. Shall I let Ms. Maximoff in_?]

Steve eyes the time - three a.m. “Sure thing, JARVIS.”

“Hi,” Wanda waves at him as the doors hiss open and allow her to enter “How is he?”

“Sleeping.” Steve smiles at the Maximoff while she crosses the apartment, wearing a massive sweatshirt and leggings. “Are you having trouble doing the same?”

She nods, cheeks flushed, most likely from frustration, and slides onto the couch next to Steve. “You can stay here as long as you need,” Steve promises. “I’m having trouble sleeping myself.”

They sit in companionable silence for a while, watching his show, and then Wanda turns to him with a smile he’d describe as wicked if he thought Wanda capable of wickedness.

“So,” she drawls. “When is the wedding?”

“The wedding?” Steve frowns. “I don’t think Tony and Pepper set a date yet-”

“Not that wedding.” Wanda smirks. “I give you some time, to collect yourself. You were so sad when Bucky was gone. But now, you are happy again. So I am allowed to tease you. I heard you, when we rescued Bucky. You said _bashert._ Soulmates?” She waggles her eyebrows at him with a sly grin.

Steve groans, but Wanda’s gaze doesn’t relent.

“Do you want to marry him?”

“Yes.” Steve nods, returning her gaze because he isn’t ashamed of the answer. “More than anything, I want that.”

Wanda smiles mysteriously, something flickering deep in her eyes.

“What are you thinking, kid?”

“Sometimes,” Wanda begins slowly. “I think I can see the curve of the universe. I can see all things between all spaces. Between people, there are - rhythms. Frequencies. Between Clint and Natasha, or Pepper and Tony. I do not understand, but I see. The way they” - she waves her hand for a second, the fingers slipping over each other as she tries to find a word, but she gives up - “You and your Bucky. You resonate. It is like nothing I see. It is more like...the way a poem feels, I suppose.”

“You sayin’ him and I rhyme?” Steve asks mischievously, nudging Wanda’s shoulder.

“I am saying you two are a completion of something.” Wanda rests her head on his own shoulder in response, small feet kicking out underneath her, not quite reaching the floor. “But what do I know? I am only seventeen.”

“You’re never going to let me hear the end of that, are you?” Steve kisses the top of her head fondly, smiling into her hair.

“No, I do not think I will.”

His heart’s been through a lot in the last few weeks, stretching, collapsing, breaking, and being put back together all over again. Steve has no doubts that if any of this had happened four years ago, it would have killed him. He’d been too broken after the Battle of New York, still limping from wounds he’d received over seventy years ago, dragged down by ghosts and grief and agony he still can’t quite comprehend.

But here, with the girl who’s become his sister supporting him, in the home he’s made with his team, his family, while the man he loves sleeps peacefully a dozen feet away - Steve knows.

Scars don’t make a person. Not at all.

It’s the marks left by gentle hands that form you; the impressions left behind by smiles, the influence of warm embraces, the steel lent by a friend offering their hand, the power left behind by kisses.

It’s not weakness to let that sort of love in; the strength it gives you can be worth every ounce of pain on the way. And even now, after the worst has happened, and then something worse than that has found a way to happen, he isn’t afraid of it. Not the way he used to be. Steve Rogers has lost everything, found everything one more time in a new century - and then had everything almost taken from him again. But it doesn’t make him fear that everything. It could. It’d be so easy to let the echoes of hurt change him, to convince him that he’s wrong for Bucky, a drain on the team, a colossal failure to a world who needs more from him. But Steve doesn’t view his scars as weakness, not when they’ve shown him so much about who he is, not when everything else left behind, outside the scars, outside the hurt, outside the fear, is so much more powerful.

It’s not his scars that define him. Not anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Bucky/the twins are celebrating the beginning of Passover with the first seder, in case you were wondering)
> 
> Worried about those Accords? Worried about Bucky's own final thoughts on what happened in this fic?
> 
>  
> 
> _the epilogue is coming soon to a device near you_
> 
>  
> 
> In the meantime, thanks for sticking with me <3


	22. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild warnings in this chapter for some more comic book violence (and some unplanned dental work... so if teeth gross you out, look away when Steve confronts Ross - you'll know when you hit it).
> 
>  
> 
> Other than that - Here we go! The end of our tale.

Steve places the white roses carefully in the holder, swapping out the older flowers that were there when he arrived. The poppies provide a pop of red, which she would have loved, if Steve knew anything about her. Standing, he brushes the dirt off of his suit pants and straightens out his jacket before speaking.

“I’m happy that you had a life,” he whispers because he never actually did get a chance to say it to her. He clears his throat and bows his head, composing himself through the lingering echo of grief that he hadn’t gotten to see her live that life. “A big life, one as big as you were. There’s nobody quite like you, Peg.”

He reaches out and trails his fingers along the letters carved into the stone. _Margaret Carter._

He can’t bring himself to trace the rest of the lettering underneath her name - the SHIELD insignia, or the dates,   _April 9, 1921 - November 30, 2015._

“I think - and correct me if I’m wrong, but I think you’d be pretty damn okay with it - I think I’d like to have a life of my own, now.”

“ _Finally pieced it together, did you, Steven_?” He can almost see the quirk of her full, red lips as she gazes sternly at him from somewhere he can’t see her. Not yet.

“Never was as smart as you,” he reminds her, and smiles to himself for a second. The grief is still there, yes, but there’s something soft, vulnerable, hopeful, too. “His name’s Bucky, by the way. You woulda loved him. At least, you both woulda loved teasing me. I’ll bring him by one day, introduce you two, when he’s feelin’ better. He’s had a rough go of it, recently.”

He blinks away tears before he speaks again. “I never woulda met him if it weren’t for you. I still think you were lookin’ out for me that day in the exhibit. So. Thanks again, Agent Carter. For everything.”

Steve places his hand on the gravestone and prays that somehow, through all the time and space and realities that separate him, Peggy can still feel how much he loves her, how much he appreciates every second they got together. Then, he turns and smiles at the person waiting for him.

Sam Wilson’s leaning against the borrowed sedan, some sixty feet away from Steve, his arms crossed casually across his chest as he waits for Steve to finish his visit. It’s a quiet, peaceful late spring morning at Arlington National Cemetery, and Steve’s not the only person here speaking with the dead.

“Hey man.” Sam claps him on the shoulder. “You ready for this?”

“As I’ll ever be.” They climb into the car, Sam driving because _apparently,_ Steve learning how to drive in Nazi Germany does not adequately translate to navigating D.C. traffic.

“Are you actually feeling okay?” Sam eyes him carefully, clearly trying to decide if Steve’s going to tell the truth or not. Steve huffs and nods. Sam chuckles while they turn right and head towards the Memorial Bridge.

“Fine.” Steve makes a face, jaw clenching, and glares out the window at the Potomac River passing underneath them. “Still working through the anger, I guess.”

“You gotta hold back on that anger for at least another few hours,” Sam raises his eyebrows when Steve grunts; they don’t talk again until they’re out of the roundabout. “Just think about how good it will feel when it’s over.”

“That’s what’s getting me through his.” His hands tighten on his knees, knuckles straining white against the black material of his suit.

“How is he?”

“Not well.” He’s lost in thought, so the words come out heavier than he means.

“Shit man, I thought he’d been improving-”

“No, no-” Steve shakes his head, half-smiling at Sam while they wait at a red light. “No, he’s good in that respect, he’s just working through a stomach bug right now. He couldn’t make the flight down here, was up sick the last three nights.”

“Lemme guess, you offered to stay and hold his hair back for him?”

“No,” Steve grumbles mulishly, and Sam laughs immediately, catching onto his bullshit.

“That’s cute. Real cute.”

Without warning, Steve pops his finger in his mouth, sucks _hard,_ and then wiggles the digit in Sam’s ear. Sam screams, shrill and furious, and the car swerves into the next lane briefly,

“You _fucker_! I am driving! In the nation’s capitol!”

“No, you’re driving _badly_ in the nation’s capitol,” Steve corrects sternly, poking his still-wet finger in Sam’s direction; Sam slaps his hand away with a scowl.

They squabble playfully, up until they pull up to the armored entrance on the side of the Capitol building.

“Can I see some I.D., gentlemen?” A guard peers at Sam, and Steve leans forward with the most stoic face possible. The kid - maybe twenty-two years old - pales when he recognizes him and waves them forward.

“That shit never gets old,” Sam cackles, window still rolled down.

“That part doesn’t,” Steve agrees, sitting back with a smile as they drive down into the garage.

***

The talks drag on at the front end, Secretary Ross and Senator Wallman sitting smugly at the front of the room.

Steve growls once, loudly enough that Bruce slides a stress ball down the table at him, when Wallman pontificates on the importance of _transparency_ and _compassionate leadership_ among the superheroes who would be affected (controlled) by the Accords.

“And now, Mr. Anthony Stark has prepared a statement on behalf of the Avengers Initiative. Mr. Stark?” Ross gestures to the podium with a sleek smile, his moustache trimmed to perfection, his eyes honest-to-God twinkling while Tony stands, re-buttons his suit jacket, and heads up to the podium, lifting a hand and smiling at the hordes of reporters who start to call his name.

A murmur of excitement is in the crowd - here’s where Tony Stark, the most recognizable of the Avengers (other than Steve), stands up and voices his total support for the Accords, whole-heartedly endorses the bill to create a separate department of the government to do nothing but monitor and direct the Avengers and other supers.

That moment never really comes.

Instead, Anthony Edward Stark picks at his cuff links, shakes out the sleeves of his suit, and cracks his neck a few times.

“So,” he sighs and gestures to the board behind him. “I think I’ll let Secretary Ross do the talking for me. Roll it, JARVIS.”

The murmur in the room increases when a recording of Ross comes over the speakers: [“I _f you take care of our problem, we’ll take care of yours._ ”]

[“ _Hydra needs a place to grow, Secretary._ ”] People in the audience _erupt_ at the mere mention of Hydra, and Steve and Sam smirk at each other before returning to their stoic expressions from before.

[“ _I think the Senator and myself would be more than happy to provide that place.”_ ]

[“ _Just tell me where to sign!_ ”]

“Is that” - Tony puts a hand over his mouth, another hand on his hip as he swivels to raise an eyebrow at the dais of senators behind him. “Is that - _Senator Wallman_?” His hand goes up to his cheek when he turns back to the assembly, a look of faux-indignation on his face. “Well, that can’t be right.”

“It isn’t right.” Wallman stands, hands on the table, and glares at Tony with full loathing. “Those could have been easily manipulated by someone of your technological genius, Mr. Stark.”

“Aw, that’s sweet.” Tony bats his eyelashes without turning around, the fluorescent lights in the room flashing off his glasses. “But I should tell you - I’m already engaged.” He tugs on his ear, his nose quirked up.

“Now, there's plenty of evidence connecting you two, and a number of your pals to Hydra, and I believe most of you will be receiving that information..." Tony checks his Rolex obnoxiously - " _Yup_ , right about now." A hundred notifications go off at once, and the reporters all dive for their devices, a collective gasp going around the room. "But in case you all don't like to read or don't trust the internet ... Gee, I wonder - I wonder if there’s a way to tell if someone’s in bed with Hydra? Luckily, we have a relic of the past in our midst - Captain Rogers!” Tony snaps and points a finger at Steve, who’s still sitting calmly in his seat, hands clasped in front of him, shirt straining across his chest. It’s been hard to sit here and _not_ jump out of his seat to kick the shit out of Wallman or Ross.

“Yes, Mr. Stark?”

“What do you recommend? To drum out science Nazis?” Tony drums his fingers on the podium. “Something quick and easy?”

“Ask ‘em how they feel about human rights?” Steve snarks, and Tony’s lips quirk up a bit. “In all seriousness - look at his molars.”

“His molars.” Tony slides his glasses up his nose with a finger. “Huh. Is that some old-timey slang, Cap?”

“No, son, no it is not.” Steve stands, not bothering to button his jacket. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

“That won’t be necessary, Captain Rogers.” Ross still looks cool as a cucumber, tilting back in his seat slightly to look down his nose at Steve. “Have a seat.”

“All due respect, Secretary.” Steve walks around his table and heads to where Ross and Wallman sit. Distantly, he’s aware of the shutter sound of dozens of cameras pointed at him. He doesn’t really care. “I don’t take orders from you.”

“I am the Secretary of State for the United States, _son_ -” Ross raises his voice suddenly and stands, face blotchy with rage as Steve steps up onto his section. “This sort of - of ludicrous abuse of power is _exactly_ why we need the Accords!”

Steve grabs Ross’s tie and hauls him in, aware of the guards that are sweeping towards him. “I won’t be kept on a leash if Hydra’s on the other end.” He grips Ross by the jaw and forces his mouth to open. “Now let’s see about that tooth.”

Nat appears out of nowhere at his elbow and peers inside. “Well, well, well.” She reaches in, and Tony, Bruce, and Sam do a good job holding off the guards for now. “What do we have here?” Ross screams in pain, and Nat retracts her hand, a yellowish capsule gripped in the metal instrument she’s holding.

“Looks like we found ourselves a Nazi,” Tony declares, still on his podium. He extends his hands wide; the screens behind him light up with digital fireworks, and red, white, and blue confetti streams down from the ceilings.

Senator Wallman chooses this moment to make a break for it, leaping over his table and sprinting for the exit.

Steve doesn’t even have to think about it, just lifts his arm so his forearm connects with Wallman’s throat. He goes down like a hundred and ninety pound sack of potatoes, and he’s led off in cuffs three minutes later, still coughing weakly from being clotheslined.

“Now that had to feel good,” Sam comments lightly as they watch the proceedings break down further, Tony still vaunting aloud on his podium, the reporters gathered around him, wide-eyed.

“More than good,” Steve answers easily, hands crammed in his pockets.

“That can’t be the end of it, though.” Sam sighs and rubs his jaw, surveying the room wearily. “The Accords - they won’t let the idea go. And with Hydra popping up again...it’s just the beginning.”

It’s true, but still, Steve knows without a doubt:

“At least we have something to fight for.”

They watch for another five minutes, but when a reporter looks past Tony and discovers Steve, she shouts: “ _Captain Rogers! Is it true Hydra kidnapped your gay lover_?” Sam mutters something to himself and grips Steve’s arm.

“Excuse me? I’m doing just fine, thanks!” Sam shouts back, and he drags Steve away from the room as the reporters start to scream. “That’ll throw ‘em off the scent,” he says by way of explanation while they head through the building to their rental car.

“You’re something else, Wilson.”

“You love me, man.”

“I really, really do.”

And now, it’s finally time to go home, to New York, to the Tower, to Bucky.

******

*******

Bucky stands in the shower, exhausted beyond all belief from the simple act of getting out of bed and turning on the damn water.

He turns it up as hot as it will go, and it’s still not warm enough. His teeth chatter, and his body shivers miserably now and then. Only _he_ has the shit luck to get the flu in the first week of June. Dr. Cho had explained over the phone that it wasn’t entirely odd to get sick in the aftermath of such a traumatic time, and Dr. Eva had agreed, so now, Bucky’s under strict instructions to hydrate as much as possible, stick to bland foods, and not leave the Tower.

As if he could leave the Tower.

Bucky has yet to go outside after Hydra took him; he prefers lying in Steve’s bed, which is honestly their bed at this point, only emerging to cook or shower or Skype in with his class to teach for a few hours a day. His students email him their work, which he grades from the comfort of the bed or the large, squishy couch Steve ordered a few weeks ago to replace the sterile, boring one that came with the apartment.

He wasn’t able to Skype in today, his head too cloudy from being sick, his body too on fire to do anything useful; he was barely able to watch the Accords talks - which broke down in a delightful way, and Steve and Tony and Sam are all approaching legendary meme status on Twitter by this point - but he’d napped afterwards, waiting for Steve to come home.

Which is how he ended up in the shower, waiting for the hot water to loosen his muscles, which feel both wound impossibly tight and weaker than a newborn’s at the same time. He drifts for a few minutes, closing his eyes, pretending it doesn’t bother him that he drifts so easy; it’s something he’s been too afraid to mention to Dr. Eva or even Wanda, that he drifts these days, losing small pieces of time here and there.

It’s not like he doesn’t remember time passing, or like he wakes up in weird places without explanation. He just … stares into space for a few minutes, or an hour, or two, or six, sometimes, when he’s left alone. It scares him, and he knows it’ll scare Steve, so he’s staying quiet about it.

As though thinking about Steve has summoned him, Bucky can hear the front door of the apartment opening, and can hear JARVIS greeting Steve, returned from D.C.

Then: “I’m home, babydoll!”

He closes his eyes under the water stream, smiling at the thought of reunion sex.

Steve’s beard had provided him hours of entertainment before he had to go and shave it to look “presentable” in D.C., and Bucky shivers, feeling the ghost of the burn he’d received, where it had rubbed against the inside of his thighs, not even four days ago before he got sick. Steve had draped his body over him for what felt like hours, murmuring _good boy,_ in his ear, cutting him to the quick, flaying him alive in the best way possible, fucking an orgasm out of him without even touching Bucky’s cock.

His dick twitches here in the present at the thought of it; Bucky shuts the water off and grabs a towel, smirking to himself.

He loses his balance though, a second later; the lights in his eyes fade, sound settling oddly in his ears, and he grips the bar in the shower desperately, trying to right himself. _I’m going to faint,_ Bucky thinks, exhausted already at the thought of the freak-out it will inspire in his sweet, albeit overbearing boyfriend. _I don’t want to faint naked._

In through his nose, out through his mouth, in through his nose - Bucky breathes shallowly at first, working on getting his heart rate settled again, but his muscles tremble again as he drags himself out of the shower and ties the towel around his waist. The unfairness of it all wells up in him as he stands in front of the bathroom mirror, slightly fogged from his shower, dripping onto the tiled floor. His throat burns in humiliation and tiredness and rage, and he breathes, in through his nose, out through his mouth, in through his nose.

The wooziness doesn’t quite pass, and his shoulders won’t stop shaking. All thoughts of reunion sex dissipate in the face of reality; Steve’ll see this on him in a second, and won’t even touch him if he thinks that it will hurt him.

“Damnit.”

He tugs on the faucet, feeling angry, and spiteful, and furious that he's still weaker than a newborn kitten.

And the knob snaps, easier than snapping off a brittle icicle. "What the hell?" He yelps, stumbling back, and his elbow goes through the wall behind him. Water spurts out of the broken sink. “What the actual flying--?”

“Bucky?” He can hear Steve, his voice anxious as he knocks. Bucky feels the world tilt under his feet. He can't answer.

The sink is broken, but he doesn't - no - it's -

Bucky can hear Steve hammering at the bathroom door, growing more and more anxious. “Bucky? Is everything alright in there?” His heart speeds up to the point of actual, physical pain, and Bucky becomes hyper-aware of everything in the bathroom, the faint rattling of the air vent above him, the water dripping steadily from the tub, the light gleaming off of the now ruined sink - “Bucky! I don’t wanna scare you, sweetheart, but God, I’m going to bust down this damn door in a second, if you don’t tell me you’re okay. Even if you just knock, you don’t gotta say nothin’, just please, let me know if you need-”

Steve’s voice fades away, a ringing rising and rising and rising in his ears in its place.

 _Run,_ something tells him. _Run now._ But first:

He uncurls his fingers and stares down at the wrenched-off metal handle in his palm, the indents of his fingers visible, the steel warped and twisted by his grip.

“What the _fuck -_ “

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [BUCKY BARNES WILL RETURN?]
> 
>  Tony Stark confetti cannons are canon.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you, from the bottom of my heart for all your support and kind words while writing this fic. I had such a wonderful time writing it, and part of that was the warm reception I received from this fandom. I can't thank you enough - and yes, I'm still planning a fluffy Modern!Bucky, Cap!Steve ABO Coffeeshop AU (and yes, I mean fluff, and not surprise torture angst).
> 
>  
> 
> [...Also, maybe I might need to come back to this universe one day? ...Maybe? If uhhhhh people thought I might need to?]
> 
> My tumblr is [dracosollicitus](https://dracosollicitus.tumblr.com/) if you want to come scream at me/talk to me about Stucky or anything else/find out what evil I have planned for the future. It's mostly a Damerey/Star Wars blog, but I'm, obviously, multi-fandom!
> 
>  
> 
> UPDATE 4/6:
> 
> Hi, I hate to change the publish date from what it was. But I was hoping people would come and read this note to answer a question and that was the best way I could think to do this —  
> —I do very much have a sequel in mind; would people prefer a new fic in the same series, or should I just tack the second part onto this same fic?? Okay that’s all, have a nice day


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